


Descent

by Penmanner



Category: Alice In Wonderland - Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland & Related Fandoms, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1865 England, Alternate Universe - Alice in Wonderland Fusion, Amnesiac Harry, Angst, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Historical Inaccuracy, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Pining, Possessive Tom Riddle, Romance, Slow Burn, but only for a little bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 10:36:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23969953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penmanner/pseuds/Penmanner
Summary: Harry Potter has been waiting for two years to escape from Privet Drive. Falling down the rabbit hole was not what he had in mind.Tom Riddle waited ten years to have the boy back in his arms. He should’ve known things wouldn’t go according to plan.A story of mistakes, and people that are not quite as simple as they first appear.
Relationships: Cedric Diggory/Harry Potter (one-sided), Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 80
Kudos: 256





	1. PART ONE: Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> To be clear: this story is a mashup of J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter and Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland/Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland, with certain story beats inspired by A. G. Howard's Splintered.

_A hand strokes down Harry’s face. “Just wait, lovely. The world will be ours, soon enough.”_

_A flash of light, white and pale, nothing compared to that lethal, electrifying green or burning, blistering red –_

_“No, no no no – you idiots! What have you done? What have you_ done? _Stay with me, darling – darling, please… Don’t forget, my love, hold on, just a moment longer… Stay with me, please, just stay._ Stay!”

_Tears landing on Harry’s skin –_

_(He said he wasn’t capable of crying – he was wrong.)_

_Gray walls, threadbare mattress, rickety frame –_

_Kisses pressed to skin, gentle, roaming fingers, legs entangled in silken sheets –_

_Consuming darkness, the type that presses down on eyelids, that chokes back words, that strangles the best intentions –  
  
_

_..._

_“...Tom?”_

_“HARRY!”_

*

In two separate worlds, a pair of boys, connected by the soul, bolt up in bed, their bodies covered in sweat. Both are left with a peculiar feeling of loss, but only one has the means to explain why.

*

For Harry, the dreams are a strange sort of sorrow that leaves almost as soon as it arrives. He has these dreams often; almost every night for the last two years, but it doesn’t particularly trouble him. They are just like the long forgotten memories of his mother, of his father: a strange, warped residue from that hated night so many years ago. 

_That’s what it is_ , he muses. _The warped imaginings and hopes of an unloved orphan._  
  


( _He won’t admit to how real they feel. How some things can never be explained. Names he shouldn’t know, people he’s never met — )_

He looks over at his bedside table, its silhouette illuminated by the moonlight and blurry without his glasses. He reaches shaking fingers to grab the small, silver pocket watch that rests on its surface. He brings it to his lips, stroking a thumb over the smooth metal.

It calms him in ways he can’t articulate. It feels safe. It feels like _home_.

With a breath, he clutches it to his chest, and rolls over onto his side, slowly drifting back to sleep. No more dreams bother him that night.

*

For Tom, the dreams are a stark reminder of his own failures. A boy lost to Tom’s own greed, his own desire for power. He hates to think of it. He has no choice.

The dreams won’t give him peace. 

Every night for the last decade they return with a vengeance, a cruel reminder of all he’d given up when he sought to follow his ambition. 

_The one that got away_ , he thinks, with a sardonic twist of his lips. 

He throws off the bedcovers, his sheets still soaked with sweat. He’d have Kreacher replace them; he can’t bear to have Weasley see him in a state like this. He makes his way out of the bedroom and across the hall, through the study and into a small sideroom set aside for his own nefarious purposes. There are candles situated on whatever surface is available in the paper-strewn study, maps and different, detailed plans covering the walls, but that’s not what holds his attention tonight. 

In the center is a large mirror, its frame a beautiful, gilded silver, but what Tom truly seeks is the basin that lies on the table beneath it. Tom lowers his head to the bowl filled with smoky, distorted memories and feels himself fall into its depths.

What greets him is the image of two young boys, lying peacefully in the grass beneath a hunkering willow tree. Tom moves forward, watching as his younger self gazes longingly at the boy next to him. Despite his best efforts, Tom can’t help but do the same.

He comes close enough to touch, but refuses to give into the temptation of Harry’s innocently childlike, nostalgic comfort. _He was so guileless, then._

Tom sighs, looks his fill for a few moments more, and then turns away from the image, his body being swept back out of the Pensieve and into the real world. 

_There is work to be done._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Official author’s notes and story discussion will be posted with Chapter 1.


	2. PART ONE: Privet Drive

“Boy, if you don’t come in here _this very minute_ – ” Vernon bellows from the yard.

“Coming, Uncle,” Harry calls, racing from the kitchen with the plate of pastries that Aunt Petunia had requested for their small tea party. They smell heavenly – treacle tart, Harry’s favorite. He longs to snag one, if only just to take a bite, but he knows that being starved for the next three days isn’t worth the nibble he might be able to manage. 

He hurriedly places the tray on the patio table, being sure to keep himself out of reach of Dudley’s grubby hands. The china has all been set meticulously, the yard trimmed and green, the flowers watered and bursting with color. Even the already clean patio has been swept and polished, the floors shining and the ceiling blocking the vicious rays of the sun. It’s picture perfect. Harry wipes sweat from his brow just thinking of all the hours he’d spent working on it.

“Get me a pastry, won’t you?” Dudley commands, his nasally voice grating against Harry’s ears. Harry smiles tightly, turning to face Dudley fully. “I think you can pull that off on your own, yeah? Or maybe you’re too slow; it wouldn’t surprise me.”

Instead of yelling or whining to his parents, as he usually does when Harry doesn’t do what he wants, Dudley smiles, a nasty thing. “If you don’t,” he says, his eyes glinting maliciously as he sticks his hand into his pocket. He pulls out Harry’s silver pocket watch, its chain dangling from his meaty fist, “I’ll just have to keep this all to myself, won’t I?”

Any retort Harry had dies in his throat. “Where did you get that?” he asks, his voice barely audible. Dudley just shrugs, before twirling the pocket watch, the inlaid gems on its face glinting in the sunlight. 

Understanding dawns on him. “You snuck into my room!” Harry accuses. _He must’ve done it while I was cleaning, the bastard._ “You can’t just – “

It is at that precise moment that Aunt Petunia sweeps in though the French doors Harry had just come through, the round hoops of her skirt knocking gently against the doorframe. “Stand up straight, you insolent child,” she snaps, sliding past his furious form. She glances back long enough to say, “And comb that hair, too! Lord knows it needs it.”

She eyes the table skeptically, as if checking things off in her head, before eyeing Harry suspiciously. “Have the floors been mopped?”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Harry replies, through a strained smile, attempting to fight back his anger. Dudley moves his head so he can watch Harry from around his mother, before making a show of twirling the silver timepiece.

“Have the windows been washed?”

With monumental effort, Harry tears his eyes away. “Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

“The grass trimmed? The croquet laid out? The curtains ironed? The fence painted?”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia. I did everything exactly as you told me to.” Harry has to hold back the anger that threatens to creep into his tone.

“You better have,” Uncle Vernon cuts in. He stomps up to them, having come around the side of the house from where he had been inspecting the front yard. He forces his way into Harry’s space, his face twisted into an ugly snarl. “I will have no slip ups, boy, do you hear me? I want you to stay quiet and follow orders, just as you’re told. And stay _out. Of. The. Way_. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry intones quietly, his gaze cutting to Dudley before flying back to his uncle. He doesn’t feel scared; no, he’s long gotten used to the blows of his uncle’s meaty fist, but he can’t help the quiet nervousness that creeps up the back of his throat at the way he leans into Harry’s space. 

Dudley watches the scene with unconcealed glee, his round face practically beaming at the promise of violence. “He’s much too stupid not to mess up, though, isn’t he Father?” he goads, his eyes never leaving Harry. Harry flinches when he nearly throws the pocket watch with how hard he’s swinging it. “Such a pity he’s got no parents to turn to.”

Vernon doesn’t even notice the time piece (Lord knows Dudley has at least six already), just nods in fervent agreement as Aunt Petunia watches on, silent. Harry twitches, resisting the urge to wrap his fingers around his cousin’s fat neck.

Vernon claps Dudley on the back, his face beaming with pride. “You’re quite right, Dudley! Filthy boy that he is, I – “

He never finishes his sentence, because with as innocent an expression as he can muster, Dudley flings the pocket watch to the ground. The light _crack_ seems to reverberate through Harry’s skull.

“Now, Duddykins, what did we say about taking care of our things?” Aunt Petunia eyes him with fond exasperation. Harry doesn’t quite hear what Dudley’s response is, because he’s positively shaking in fury, his gaze glued to the discarded silver timepiece. He stoops down, slow and careful, and scoops up the broken pocket watch. He stands, and looks up to find his uncle is now talking animatedly.

“The boy just doesn’t know his own strength, Petunia. Too strong for his own good, just like his father!” Vernon bellows, clapping Dudley on the back. Before he’s even stopped chuckling, his gaze quickly switches back to Harry. His expression of merriment soon morphs to one of loathing. “Boy, what are you doing? Get to work!”

Harry sees _red_.

He can hardly move, his blood boiling in his veins as anger consumes him. His fists are clenched so tightly the knuckles are white, his teeth grit so harshly he’s surprised they haven’t shattered. The china on the table rattles ominously. Distantly he realizes this is bad, and some part of him that’s not on fire with rage desperately tries to tap down this sizzling anger coursing through him, because he can’t do this, not _here_ –

His pleas do nothing. Vernon has turned back to his son, and he and Dudley are still chuckling like hare-brained idiots, oblivious as ever, but Petunia looks at Harry with wide eyes, her thin lips open in a small ‘o’. “Vernon,” she murmurs, her eyes never straying from Harry’s, even as she grapples to get her husband’s attention, “Vernon! Vernon, the boy!”

Uncle Vernon looks over, and his eyes too seem to widen before his face pales rapidly. He goes green, after a moment, and he seems almost ready to throw up all over Harry’s shows before he finally settles on an ugly puce color, his face all screwed up in rage. Harry distantly wonders just how many colors he can turn before he explodes. 

After a moment Harry registers that they’re _still_ staring at him, but soon realizes that they are looking _behind_ him. He turns, and feels the anger fade from him as quickly as it came. He watches with horror as the furniture in the kitchen and living room is tossed about like paper aeroplanes, the utensils and cutlery spinning as if trapped in a tornado. Despite the truly surreal image, that’s not the worst of it.

In the midst of it stands Mr. and Mrs. Mason, their eyes like saucers, their mouths gaping like fish. Harry winces, his heart dropping. He turns, slowly, and comes face to face with the furious face of his uncle, the hatred plain to see on his practically purple face, the terrified face of his aunt, and the dumbly confused face of his cousin. Of the three, he knows which terrifies him the most.

*

Harry lands painfully on his side, the wood floor of his bedroom unforgiving under his weight. The pocket watch carefully cradled in his hands, he groans, trying to lift himself up under the weight of his uncle’s furious stare as he stands over him, blocking the light, but it’s no use. Uncle Vernon grabs him by the collar, his grip harsh and unforgiving, his expression so full of utter hatred Harry’s surprised that steam isn’t coming out of his ears. 

“Listen here, _freak_ ,” he says, spittle flying from his mouth. “The day you showed up on our doorstep from that _god-forsaken_ orphanage I should’ve known you were going to be trouble! Still, we took you in out of the goodness of our hearts,”–(even despite his precarious position, Harry has to resist the urge to laugh in his Uncle’s face at _that_ particular comment)–“and gave you room and board under the condition that you work! And you, boy, are _fucking. It. Up_!”

Before Harry can blink he’s again thrown to the ground, and he doesn’t even get the chance to sit up before his Uncle places a heavy foot on his chest. The man leans over him, and for the first time in two years, Harry can honestly say that he thinks he looks _menacing_. 

“That contract only lasts until you’re twenty, boy,” his Uncle hisses, voice falling lower, but no less angry. “Mark my words: as soon as the clock strikes twelve on that god-forsaken day, you will be out on the streets and out of my _bloody house_!”

His uncle puts more pressure on Harry’s chest, and for one, heart stopping second Harry thinks he’s going to do it, he’s going to _crush_ his _lungs–_

But no. The man just stands, straightening his hat and stepping away. Harry breathes an inner, momentary sigh of relief at the space between them. “Be thankful, boy, that Mrs. Mason fainted and her husband was knocked out. Otherwise, I assure you,” and his Uncle’s smile is a nasty, vile thing, twisted and filled with venom, “that you may not have escaped with your life, today.” 

He stoops, then, and before Harry can fully register what’s happening, he’s scooped the broken pocket watch from out of his hands. “I’ll be taking this. Lord knows you don’t deserve it.”

Harry lets out an aborted shout of protest, but before he can do anything, his uncle hisses in pain, clutching his hand and letting the pocket watch fall to the ground. Harry dives for it, his hands scooping it from the air in one smooth motion. He retreats to the other side of the room, his fingers biting into the cold metal.

“It burned me! It _bloody burned me_ !” He turns his furious glare to Harry, and Harry thinks _This is it, this is the end, I’ve done it now_ –

But then his Uncle turns and stomps away, slamming the door behind him. Harry watches in shock as his Uncle leaves, his fists clenched from where he’s sprawled on the floor. He’s shaking with fear and anger, with the utter _unfairness_ of it all. 

He listens with a sinking heart as he hears the _click_ of the lock. _Damn it all to hell_.

*

Harry’s fingers brush over the glass of his timepiece as he stares down at it. The hands are stuck permanently at 12:15, and a few of the smaller gems have fallen from their setting. To top it all off, the glass is cracked in several places, with the most noticeable being a large, jagged line diagonal across the glass, a few smaller cracks branching off from it. _It could be worse_ , he supposes. _I could’ve lost it forever._ He flips it over, and traces the inscription on the back. _Ma lumière, mon amour, ma vie, toujours._

Harry sighs, flopping back onto his bed, the metal clutched tightly in his hand. 

Harry stares at the ceiling, his fingers itching with the need to get up and _do_ something. It’s useless, he knows, with the door locked and the window barred (courtesy of a stunt he pulled a few months ago), but he’s never been the type to sit still. It’s just when he resolves himself to an evening of hunger and restless sleep that he hears a small tap on his window.

He bolts upright, quickly tucking the pocket watch into his waistcoat pocket. The sun has already set; no one should be here so late, least of all someone to see _Harry…_

_Crack!_

It’s a rock, he realizes. Someone’s throwing _rocks_ at his _window_.

Oh, he’s going to kill them.

Harry sneaks over on quiet feet, tapping once on the window to let them know that he’s about to be unshielded by the glass. He carefully unlatches the window, raising it as far up as it can go, and there, in all their golden glory, is Cedric Diggory, Neville Longbottom, and Lavender Brown, cheerfully waving from the ground below.

Harry lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “What are you guys doing here? It’s,”– he takes a quick look at the shabby, cracked grandfather clock they shoved in here for storage –“10:50. Shouldn’t you guys be in bed?”

“We’re here to sneak you out!” Lavender says brightly, a broad smile on her face. She’s only sixteen, hardly three years younger than Harry, and the younger sister he never had. It makes him nervous how excited she is by bending the rules; she’s in a convent, for god’s sakes! She shouldn’t even be out here. Still, her presence warms his heart, no matter how un-nunlike it may be.

“There’s bars on the window, Lav,” Harry sighs, a hopeless smile on his face. 

“Well, that’s never stopped us before, now, has it?” Neville says, looking to Cedric. The other boy nods, and, with a secretive smile pointed in Harry’s direction, slips out a metal key from under his jacket. “Don’t worry,” Cedric says, testing the vines leading up to Harry’s window, before bracing his foot against the brick, “all you have to do is open the door.”

Harry watches with wide, admiring eyes as Cedric climbs up the vines, careful not to rip them from the wall as he slowly makes his way up to Harry’s barred window. The whole thing is entirely too much like Rapunzel for Harry to be comfortable, but he pushes the thought away and shuffles forward when Cedric finally reaches the top. 

The other boy holds fast to the bars with one hand and offers the key to Harry with the other, his expression entirely too mischievous. “Take this and unlock your door, then sneak downstairs and walk out the front. We’ll distract them from the back.”

Harry nods, taking the key from the other boy, a broad smile on his face. “You guys are brilliant,” he praises, backing away to the other side of the room. “I’ll wait three minutes and then meet you outside, alright?”

“Alright. Good luck,” Cedric says, his head disappearing over the window sill. Harry waits with bated breath for the sound of the back door opening, and can’t help but feel thankful that he hadn’t changed his clothes from earlier. 

_They’re fucking brilliant,_ Harry muses from his station by the door. It’s no secret that the Dursleys held a special fondness for the Diggory boy, despite his less than wealthy status, and that Dudley was practically infatuated with Lavender. He’d never thought to use it to his advantage before, but, thinking about it now, he can’t help but feel giddy at having something he can hold over their heads.

When he hears voices coming from downstairs a couple minutes later, he silently pushes the key into the lock and lets out a little laugh of victory when he hears that telltale _click_. He carefully pushes open the door, sliding out of his room on silent feet. He creeps down the stairs, making sure to keep to the sides to avoid the creakiest parts of it, before landing in the hallway that leads to the front door. 

Harry grasped the doorknob, slipping into the cool air of the English night without turning back. He shuts the door quietly behind him, taking a deep breath. After listening for a moment and not hearing any yells of anger or contempt, he grins, his blood singing. _A night of freedom._

*

_“Harry, you need to tell McGonagall. She’ll know what to do–”_

_“I can’t, Cedric. I’ve only just known her a month, I can’t put that on her.” Harry hugged one of his knees to his chest, looking out of the window of the school to the dirty cobbled street. He couldn’t bear to look at those eyes, so honest and kind._

_“Harry, you’ve only known me a week longer than her, and you trusted me enough to tell me this. What’s so different about her? I can’t let you go back there, knowing that they put you–they put you in a cupboard, for christ’s sake!_ _I won’t let you go back to that, Harry, but I can’t do anything if you won’t let me. Please, just trust me?” Cedric ducked his head down, attempting to meet Harry’s gaze, but Harry kept his eyes firmly trained out the window._

_Cedric sighed. Harry was stubborn, he knew that. He did the only thing he could do: he wrapped his arms firmly around Harry, tucking the boy’s head under his chin. Harry stiffened, but Cedric just embraced him more firmly. After a moment of listening to his friend’s heartbeat, Harry gave in, relaxing into the embrace._

_Harry’s voice was quiet when he finally broke the silence. “Do you think she’d actually help me? She hardly knows me.”_

_Cedric sighed, his breath tickling Harry’s scalp. “I know so. She adores you the most out of all of us, Harry, even if she doesn’t show it.”_

_“I don’t think that’s possible,” Harry whispered, laughing quietly. “You’re everyone’s golden boy.”_

_“Until you came along,” Cedric said, his voice soft. He pulled away, his smile gentle and reassuring. “I’ll go with you if we tell her now. She needs to know, Harry.”_

_Harry nodded, his shoulders hunching. “Alright.”_

_“Good. C’mon, we can walk together.”_

*

Harry steps out of his shoes before slipping off his socks, careful not to trip and fall into the frigid water. The creek is small, not more than five feet across, but it was enough. It had become a sanctuary, of sorts, when something went wrong. Harry’s trio of friends had been here when he’d finally told them about his cupboard, when Neville’s grandmother had fallen ill, when the man Cedric had formerly apprenticed under had died… It was a safe space. It was a little slice of heaven, here, under the willow trees, the babbling brook a comforting sound under the pale moonlight. 

Neville sets to work heating the embers, careful to conceal them behind the low leaves of the Weeping Willow. They can’t have a fire, not if they want to stay unnoticed by anyone else and avoid lighting the tree on fire. Its absence makes the air seem so cold, far too cold to consider swimming, but Harry can’t resist the urge to dip his toes into the water. It’s been too long since they last came here.

Harry traces the water with a bare foot before landing with a _thud_ on the grass, satisfied and smiling. Lavender soon flops down beside him and forcefully tosses his arm around her shoulders, burrowing into the warmth. She’s grinning, teeth straight and white. Harry can’t help but feel amused at the way her hands carefully arrange her black skirt, making sure it lays perfectly flat, like the paintings she so loved to admire in halls of the convent.

He turns his gaze away, only to find that Cedric is already looking at him, a small smile on his face. Harry smiles back. It’s silent, the only sound the soft chirping of crickets, before Harry breaks it, his voice unbearably fond. “I never imagined I’d have a family like this, you know,” He says, his voice soft. Even so, it carries.

He feels Lavender nod from beside him, and watches as Neville’s head jerks up from where it had been studying the embers. Cedric’s only reaction is the slight dimming of his smile. 

Harry takes a breath, centering himself. He reaches a hand into his pocket, stroking the cool silver of his (now broken) pocket watch for comfort. Vulnerability has never come naturally to him, but tonight, remembering the lengths they’d gone to to ensure he was safe… “McGonagall, the school, each of you… I just wanted to say thanks. For bailing me out. I’m not… used to it, exactly. It means a lot.” The admission is stilted and awkward, while simultaneously low, intimate. He hopes they hear the words left unsaid.

Lavender clutches him tighter, her nun’s habit tickling his chin. Neville’s face softens and he leaves the fire, coming to sit beside them, throwing his arm over Harry’s shoulders. Cedric does the same to Neville, completing their small semicircle. They come together, arms draped over each other, heads resting on shoulders, their faces bathed in what little moonlight can come through the willow’s leaves.

“We’re a family,” Neville says, and Harry laughs. “Of course,” he replies, and he knows Cedric and Lavender feel the same.

It’s moments like these that convince Harry that maybe, just maybe, magic could be real.

(He has no idea just how right he is.)

“McGonagall says I might be able to become a teacher at the school, once my contract with Mr. Simmons is up,” Cedric admits suddenly, breaking the pleasant silence.

Harry’s head whips around, a broad grin spreading on his face. “Really? Cedric, that’s amazing!” Cedric smiles back, his eyes lowered, shy.

“Congratulations! Guess you’ll just miss me and Harry, huh?” Neville says, beaming, just as Lavender squeals, clapping her hands, “Why didn’t you tell us sooner? Oh, you’re going to be the best, I can already tell!”

“It’s not that big of a deal, really,” Cedric says shyly, watching the brook. “She said she would’ve offered it once I’d graduated, but I’d already signed on with the blacksmith. But since my deal with him ends in a few months, she figured…”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Harry laughs, nudging him. “God, I can’t believe you’re twenty-one already.”

Lavender nods vehemently beside him, her gaze dreamy. “Soon enough you’ll be married and have kids and a real job and a mansion… But don’t forget us little people! We’d happily take any spare money off your hands.”

“I don’t think I could ever forget you guys. And besides, soon enough, you guys will all have families of your own,” Cedric replies. “If I’m honest, I wish I could freeze us all as we are now.”

“Me too.” Harry looks up, meeting Cedric’s gaze. The other’s was soft, wistful even. It seemed almost…

Harry shakes himself, brushing the thought away. He elbows Lavender, his tone sly as he says, “But our Lavender won’t ever get the privilege of all that, will she? Stuck in the convent–”

“I am not _stuck_ in the convent!” She exclaims, indignant. She sits upright, crossing her arms, sticking her nose in the air. She’d always been dramatic, since the day Harry had met her. “Being a nun is an admirable profession, and even so, I’m not even a _nun_ , I’m a _ward_ – ”

“We’re aware,” Cedric huffs, amusement clear in his voice, the wistful tone gone, as if it’d never been.

“ – and if some dashing young man were to come and sweep me off of my feet, well, who could say no to that? As long as they’re not dreadfully poor, of course, that would _never_ do – ”

“Lavender, we’re poor,” Neville interjects flatly, looking around Harry to meet Lavender’s gaze. “Surely you can’t just _say that_ – ”

Harry blocks out the rest of the conversation, intent on watching Cedric. There’s something about him, tonight. Something off. Harry’s brow furrows. 

Cedric, too, has tuned out the other two, watching the moonlit creek with a single minded focus, his jaw working in a way that leaves Harry mildly worried. His gaze is intense, contemplative, and for a moment Harry swears that look seems familiar, like he’s seen it on someone else, but he knows he hasn’t – one rarely has time for existential crises when they’re working themself to death. 

Cedric abruptly turns, then, his golden brown eyes meeting Harry’s. His gaze is still intense, but Harry can’t find that aching familiarity he’d seen only a moment earlier. “Is something wrong?” the older boy asks, voice filled with concern.

“Nothing,” Harry finds himself saying, even as a perplexed expression settles on his face, “Nothing at all.”

*

Harry and Cedric walk side by side, their footsteps clicking on the cobblestones as they make their way back to Number 4 Privet Drive. Neville was already helping to sneak Lavender back into the convent, so Cedric and Harry were left to their own devices. Harry had maintained that he could walk home on his own, but Cedric insisted on escorting him, and Harry's always been a people-pleaser.

“Did you really believe Neville, earlier?” Cedric murmurs, his voice hushed, even as the silence seems to shatter around them. “About us being a family?”

“Of course,” Harry replies, surprised by the question. He turns his head to meet the other boy’s eyes, but Cedric won’t meet his gaze; he just keeps watching the horizon as they walk, his expression once again contemplative. Harry turns his gaze back to the road. “You guys are what keep me going. Without you, the others… I wouldn’t have lived past those first few weeks.”

It comes out of nowhere, the only warning a sharp intake of breath from beside him. Then, two hands are on his biceps, pulling him close, until all Harry can see is that handsome face, aching in its sincerity. Cedric’s gaze searches Harry’s, searing him to the bone. And then, with the precision of someone who is practiced, Cedric places a soft, lingering kiss to Harry’s lips.

Harry’s heart stops, and then, with an almighty, heaving _thud,_ beats once, twice, three times–

And Cedric pulls away, a light flush on his cheeks, barely evident in the moonlight. He looks away, embarrassed, unwilling to look Harry in the face after what he’d just done. “I’m sorry, I know that was unexpected, I just… I wanted to do that before I never got the chance. I don’t want you to go, Harry.”

Harry can’t breathe. It _had_ been unexpected. Since when – ? And to Harry? A _boy_ ? He can’t compute, can’t quite _comprehend_ –

And then, as if hit with a cold rush of water, he snaps back to reality, still gaping like an idiot. Cedric is watching him, his face pale and worried, and still with that aching edge of concern. “Harry? Are you all right?”

Harry forces his mouth to move. “Yes, I – I just, um – ”

Cedric sighs, taking a step back and running a hand through his hair nervously. “I’m sorry. Just forget this ever happened, it doesn’t matter – ”

“Cedric,” Harry says, and Cedric stops immediately, finally meeting the younger boy’s gaze. Harry has so many questions, so many that need answering, but he can’t help but hear a few select words ringing in his head, begging to be explained. “‘Don’t want you to go’?”

“What?” Cedric says, face blank in surprise.

“That’s what you said. What do you mean you don’t want me to go? Go where?”

“Nowhere,” he says immediately, his eyes refusing to meet Harry’s. “I didn’t – it didn’t mean anything, it must’ve just slipped out – “

“Cedric, what aren’t you telling me?” Harry asks, momentarily disregarding his complete and utter _embarrassment_ in pursuit of his suspicion. He steps forward into the taller boy’s space. “What? What aren’t you saying?”

Cedric holds up his hands in a motion of surrender, backing up two steps for every one Harry took forward. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it, really – I just – ” and then he stumbles to a stop, and Harry nearly runs into him at the abrupt motion. Cedric takes a deep breath, steeling himself before blurting, “I’m scared of the future.”

“You – what?”

“I’m scared of the future. Yeah, I’m just – you mentioned new families, and it just made me nervous, y’know? Us – the four of us – we have a good thing going. I don’t want to leave you guys behind, or for you to do the same to me. I guess I just figured that, now that I’m about to be a teacher, I’d take my chance. So I did. Just then. It’s nothing, we can just forget it ever happened.”

Harry eyes him skeptically, crossing his arms. He knows Cedric is hiding something, and his curiosity is not an easy beast to tame. Still, he knows that digging too deeply into anyone’s secrets (at least so obviously) was bound to end badly. 

(The fact that he had just been kissed – and by his best friend, a _boy_ , no less – contributes greatly in distracting him from whatever suspicions he may have.) 

It is only by the barest bit of will power that he is able to say, “Okay.”

“‘Okay’?” Cedric parrots, his eyebrows lifting, as if incredulous that Harry’s bought his – frankly _flimsy_ – lie.

“Okay,” Harry sighs, looking up the road to the Dursleys’. “I won’t bother you about this now, and don’t even try to say that you aren’t lying to me, because that’s an insult to the both of us,” he says, turning to glare at the taller boy. “But, I have faith you’ll tell me when you’re ready.” _Or I’ll find out on my own_ , remained unsaid.

Cedric nods, a tentatively grateful smile slipping onto his face. “Okay. Okay, I can live with that.” 

“Good. I’m going up to the Dursleys’, okay? Go home. We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” Harry replies, even as his head reels from it all, the shock of it suddenly slamming home. _He’d been kissed. By Cedric. A boy. And he wasn’t_ disgusted _–_

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Harry confirms, slowly backing up the street to his relative’s. “Goodnight, Cedric.”

“Goodnight, Harry. And you won’t – you won’t tell anyone about the, um – ”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Harry murmurs, his pace never faltering, his gaze never leaving Cedric’s. “I expect an explanation.”

“You’ll get one, I promise. Go to sleep, Harry. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Cedric reassures, waving weakly.

Harry nods and turns around, his feet carrying him to the Dursleys’, his heart galloping in his chest. He can feel Cedric’s gaze burning holes into his back the whole way home.

*

A week and a half later, Harry Potter has not spoken to Cedric Diggory since The Incident. 

When he’d gotten home that night, he’d been unable to sleep because he’d been plagued by one simple fact: it wasn’t the kiss that had bothered him. It was the fact that he hadn’t _disliked_ it.

He wasn’t even attracted to Cedric. He could appreciate that he was handsome, just like he could appreciate that Lavender was pretty, but it didn’t change the fact that for the better part of two years they’d been siblings in everything but name. Cedric was nice, and handsome, and smart, and strong, but there was something… _missing_ , for lack of a better word. Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

It didn’t really matter what he thought on the subject, though, because even if he _did_ have feelings for Cedric, nothing could ever happen between them. 1865 England was not the place for two young men to fall in love. 

Harry jolts out of his thoughts as he feels the carriage jolt to a stop. They’d finally arrived at the Masons’, it seems. They’d invited the Dursley’s as an apology for their sudden unconsciousness, and Harry is eternally thankful that they don’t remember his complete loss of control.

The house is far grander than Harry had imagined it would be, certainly grander than the Dursleys’. The Mason Manor is very, very large, with white walls that contrast starkly with the vast acres of green land and ponds that make up the yard. Harry can even see a hedge maze peeking out from around the corner! The colossal pillars in the front of the house are a persistent reminder of the Masons’ deep pockets, as well as their high status in English society.

Harry shakes himself from his staring, and jumps from his place by the driver’s seat to rush around the carriage and open the door for his relatives. It really is a miracle they’d allowed him to come at all, but he knows they wouldn’t go out in public, especially not high society such as this, without a faithful servant.

Harry plasters a smile on his face as he holds out his hand for Dudley. The other boy simply sneers, knocking his shoulder against Harry’s as he passes. Unperturbed, Harry simply waits as Aunt Petunia emerges next, reluctantly taking his hand as she steps out. Once her feet are safely on solid ground she pulls away as if burned, a permanent look of disgust on her thin face. Last, but certainly not least (at least in terms of size), out comes Vernon Dursley, his beady eyes immediately going to Harry before flicking to the mansion. He steps down from the carriage, his abrupt departure making it tilt just slightly.

Before joining Aunt Petunia and Dudley, Uncle Vernon turns to Harry, his voice low and ominous, his mustache standing on end with irritation. He grabs the back of Harry’s neck, forcing him to lean in close so he can hear. Harry bristles at how submissive it makes him feel.

“Listen here, boy. I expect perfect manners, do you understand? No running amok like the foolish filth you are, no rudeness, and no – no _tomfoolery_! Do you hear me? I will tolerate none of it!”

“Yes,” Harry says, his teeth grit.

“What was that?” He spits, jostling Harry.

Harry exhales sharply through his nose. “Yes, Uncle Vernon. I understand.”

“Good. Stay behind me.” He releases him and straightens his jacket, completely disregarding his nephew once more. “Come along, Petunia, darling, and Dudley. Let us go greet our hosts.”

And with that they march into the Manor, Harry trailing like a bothersome shadow behind them.

*

Harry waits patiently under the hunkering oak tree, semi-hidden behind the branches as he watches Uncle Vernon, Dudley, Mr. Mason, and a selection of other men play croquet. The only one who seems to be any good is Dudley, but that doesn’t do anything to lighten Harry’s spirits. It only means that his relatives will be even more unbearably smug than usual.

Bored of their game, Harry’s eyes flick over to where Aunt Petunia, Mrs. Mason, Minerva McGonagall, and several other women are sitting under the large pavilion, sipping daintily from teacups as they chat. Neville is here with his recovered grandmother, Harry knows, but he has no idea where he’d disappeared off to. It was a shame, really, but Harry certainly hadn’t expected to enjoy himself while he was here, anyway.

Harry sighs, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. He can hear the guests laughing, hear how they enjoy themselves while he stands, invisible, in the corner. He fights back the jealousy rising in his throat. To be happy like that, like he wasn’t some sort of _freak…_ To be _accepted_ like that _…_

It’s at that precise moment that Harry notices a flash of blue in the corner of his eye. His head whips around, and he finds himself looking directly at the entrance to the hedge maze. His eyes narrow, puzzled and suspicious. It looks perfectly ordinary. No one is even standing near it, so why…

_There!_

Harry catches the tail end of a blue pinafore dress and long blonde hair before they disappear around the corner of the maze, as if they’d never been there. Curiosity piqued, Harry takes a quick glance around. No one is looking at him, or even looking in his direction, really. The only thing stopping him from investigating is the fact that the entrance to the hedge maze is directly across the yard, diagonal to the corner he’s been lurking in. 

Harry waits for a moment, letting his gaze wander, before alighting on the tree above him. The trunk is thick, the fork in its branches barely four feet above the ground. He takes a quick look at the branches, and, realizing that they provided plenty of cover, hoists himself up. He looks over the bushes that run along the perimeter of the yard and sure enough, the maze runs along directly behind where he’d been standing. He grins.

_Brilliant._

He knows it is exceptionally stupid to go running after something that will probably only lead to trouble, especially when he can so easily be spotted, but he’s always been a slave to his curiosity. 

Quickly glancing behind to make sure that he hadn’t been noticed, he grabs onto a higher branch, hoisting himself up, before crawling farther out onto the limb. He’s over the hedge, now, and it’s a straight nine foot drop to the ground.

 _Well_ , he supposes, _it’s now or never._

Thank God he isn’t scared of heights.

With a deep breath, he lets go, dropping to the ground in a roll, landing haphazardly on his knees. He laughs, exhilarated.

He felt _free_. 

It was a bloody lie, of course, but he’d take what he could get.

He’s tempted to just sit there, basking in the reprieve from his relatives, but hardly manages the thought before he catches another glimpse of that blue fabric. He bolts upright, quickly checking that his pocket watch is still safely encased in his pocket, before scrambling to his feet as the mysterious figure vanishes around another bend. Without a second thought he races after it, his buckled shoes slipping on the dewy grass as he runs.

Harry hasn’t run in ages. It feels _amazing_ , with the sun shining down on him and the hedges and flowers a colorful blur as he passes. He skids past corners, his breaths coming fast with excitement as the blue splotch of color continues to evade him. 

It’s like an elaborate game of tag, in a way.

He rounds one more corner at breakneck speed before stumbling to a stop. He’s in the center of the maze, now, and in it there is a clearing. What really catches Harry’s attention, though, is the large, twisting yew tree displayed front and center. It has a haunting quality to it, and an unnatural hush settles around Harry like a blanket of snow. The hair on the back of his neck rises.

_Well this isn’t ominous at all._

The mysterious blue fabric all but forgotten, Harry creeps forward, warily surveying it. There doesn’t seem to be anything particularly special about it, except for a rather large opening at its base. It’s big enough to fit Harry, surely, though he certainly isn’t going to try and find out –

As if summoned, a firm set of hands press against his shoulders, holding him to an invisible chest. A whisper in his ear like a nonexistent breeze – “ _Find me_ ” – and he’s shoved forward, hurtling into the darkness. 

Harry James Potter, entirely unprepared and filled with trepidation, falls down the rabbit hole, his shout of surprise unheard of by the other garden occupants.

*

“I didn’t know you were here.”

Cedric turns, locating the source of the voice. Neville Longbottom steps into the clearing, his round face betraying his quiet guilt. Cedric sighs, turning back to the yew tree. “McGonagall brought me. She thought I should be here.”

“He’s going to be angry once he finds out,” Neville says, coming to a stop next to Cedric. His eyes never leave the rabbit hole. 

“Which he?”

“Harry,” he clarifies, his voice soft. “Though I don’t think Riddle will be happy, either. But Harry… He thought we were his friends.”

“We _are_ his friends,” Cedric snarls, his fists clenching. 

“He won’t see it that way.” 

Cedric sighs, his shoulders slumping. “I know. But what can we do? Riddle’s so close to achieving his goals and if there’s anyone that can stop him… That can hold him back… It’s Harry. He’s always been good at getting himself out of trouble.” _Let’s just hope he hasn’t lost his touch,_ Cedric prays.

“I know.” Neville’s voice is graver than Cedric’s ever heard it. “But he’s always been good at getting himself into it, too. Riddle’s been planning this for a very long time.”

“He _will_ fix this. He has to.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I don’t know,” Cedric sighs, his voice cracking. “I just don’t know.”

They stay like that for a while, watching the rabbit hole. It seems the appropriate thing to do, when their only hope has just disappeared through it. 

Cedric suddenly feels a soft hand on his arm, and he turns to find Lavender smiling sympathetically up at him before a more wizened hand settles on his shoulder. “Are we ready?” McGonagall asks, her voice stern. “Myrtle should have sent him on his way by now.”

“Yep,” Neville says. “Let’s go.”

And just like that, their hands joined and their hearts weighed down by worry, they each allowed themselves to be swallowed by the rabbit hole, their only source of hope facing his own troubles at the bottom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> This is my take on an Alice in Wonderland AU! It’s been in the works for quite a while, and I’m glad to share it with you. That being said, this story will be told in three parts, and during part one, will be loosely following Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland. After that... well, you’ll just have to wait and see.
> 
> I’ll be doing my best to post every one to two weeks, though there may be minor delays due to technological challenges.
> 
> All of that out of the way...
> 
> I hope you enjoy Descent.


	3. PART ONE: Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a thank you for 750 followers on Tumblr! If you wanna go say hi, feel free to check it out! Here’s the link: https://penmanner.tumblr.com/

“ _HOLY FUCKING JESUS CHRIST ALMIGHTY – “_

Harry’s scream is torn from his throat as he hurtles down into blackness. He can barely register what he’s passing, as it seems to be moving by at an alarming pace, and then, like a flipped switch –

He seems to stop. In midair. He just _stops_ . _Falling_.

 _What the_ FUCK _is happening?_

Harry twists and writhes, trying to get himself into some semblance of an upright position, though it’s rather hard to tell exactly which way that _is_ because of how dark it is. 

As if summoned by his thoughts, a torch ignites. Harry’s head whips around, and he finds that it’s mantled to the wall of the rabbit hole. That isn’t even the most peculiar thing. There is – there is _furniture_ , clinging to the walls, floating, just like Harry, as if paused in the middle of space. Threaded throughout the odd mosaic of the walls are vines, beautiful flowers bursting with color interspersed along the odd work of art. He watches with barely concealed wonder as another torch, this time to the right of him, ignites itself, too. As if triggered, a spiraling row of light winds its way down the tunnel wall, leading the way.

Harry lets out a breath, a smile stealing its way onto his face. Oh, he’s in a load of trouble, he knows, because he’s finally snapped and gone insane, but if this is insanity – well. Surely it can’t be so bad. 

Allowing himself to just go with it, Harry finds that he isn’t actually paused in midair, but floating. As if he’s as light as a feather, being carried by the breeze.

He can’t help it; he laughs. He feels just like a child – giddy and lightheaded with the wonder of it all.

He lets himself be guided lower and lower, his chin resting on his crossed arms as he lays on his stomach. He watches the furniture float by, and soon rolls over, situating himself on his back so as to be more comfortable. He watches as the light from the rabbit hole slowly grows further and further away. He feels a pang in his chest, then. Cedric and Lavender and Neville and McGonagall – all up there, out of reach. It’s like a flipped switch.

Anxiety floods his veins, and his breath comes faster; panicked. “Help!” Harry scrabbles at the air, trying uselessly to climb back up to the light. “Wait! Wait, I don’t want to go! Cedric, Lavender! CEDRIC!”

He struggles relentlessly, distantly noticing how the torches seem to rise and quake with his panic. It isn’t long before he realizes it’s useless. Whatever this is, _wherever_ he is – he isn’t going to escape it through here.

He lets his hands fall to his sides. The surrender of it tastes bitter in his mouth. _Maybe insanity’s not so nice, after all._

He lays there for what feels like eternity, the hole above slowly growing smaller, and before long the air around Harry starts to seem… brighter, somehow. More open. After a moment of struggling, Harry’s able to flip over onto his stomach once more to try and figure out why. His eyes widen when he realizes he’s hardly seven feet from the floor and gaining speed.

“No, no no no,” he mutters frantically, stretching his arms out to brace himself. He hits the floor with a loud _thunk_.

“Ouch,” he groans, his cheek flat against the floor. His chest and hips will surely bruise, but nothing is broken, as far as he can tell.

Speaking of broken... 

His hand flies to his pocket, and he breathes out a sigh of relief when he sees his pocket watch isn’t damaged. Or, more damaged than it already is, anyway.

Harry lets his head fall back to the ground, then, and is half resigned to just lay there on the cold floor, which is, apparently, white marble, when he hears a small snigger from a few feet to the right of his head. He slowly turns, and stares with wide eyes as a girl – a _ghost,_ he thinks hysterically – slowly floats over to him, giggling all the while. She has thick glasses and lank, limp hair, and is wearing the most peculiar clothing – Harry can hardly call it a dress, though that seems to be the closest descriptor he can come up with. It’s dark and plain, and looks to be made of wool, kind of like the dresses he’s seen on the nuns at the church. 

Harry shakes his head in shock, slowly pushing himself to his hands and knees, carefully tucking his pocket watch back into his waistcoat pocket. He stares at the – the _ghost_ with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. “It’s official. I’ve officially gone crazy. I just _had_ to throw myself off the deep end, didn’t I?”

“If it helps, you do _look_ crazy,” the ghost says, swooping down until her translucent face is mere inches from his. Her gaze is scrutinizing as she looks at him from head to toe. “Wild hair, too pale, insane eyes – yes, you certainly look the type.”

“Well, fuck you, too,” Harry snaps. Honestly, what does it say about him if even figments of his imagination are mean?

He absolutely could not have predicted what happens next. One moment the girl is staring at him, and then she sniffs, and promptly bursts into tears.

Harry watches in shock, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open as she sweeps away, her ghostly form settling itself on the opposite side of the room. “Well there’s no need to be rude!” She wails, glaring at him through her sobs. “It was just an observation!”

Harry twitches in irritation before stumbling to his feet, his hands held out in a placating gesture. “Oh, yes, I can see that now, um – may I ask your name, miss…?”

Thankfully her loud sobbing quietens to soft whimpers, and she looks at him with skeptical, though watery, eyes. “Myrtle,” she hiccups, crossing her arms and hunching into herself in irritation. “They call me Moaning Myrtle.”

“Moaning – why Moaning Myrtle? Why not just Myrtle?”

“I don’t KNOW!” she screeches, large tears flying from her face. Harry absently notes that despite her being largely incorporeal, her tears are made of actual water. They hit the floor with a soft _plink._ “DO YOU THINK I _ASKED_ FOR A NICKNAME LIKE THAT? I’VE BEEN BULLIED, TEASED, TORMENTED AND YOU HAVE THE _NERVE_ TO _SUGGEST – “_

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t – I never meant – ” Harry brushes a frantic hand through his hair, before thinking, _To hell with it_ , and heading toward the irate ghost. She keeps on with her tirade despite his hesitant approach, but falls silent when he holds out his hands, and though he doubts she can feel it, attempts to rest his hands on her shoulders. He nearly recoils when he feels how _cold_ she is.

He tentatively tries to catch her eye. “Um, Myrtle – do you think that you could forgive me for my, um – my lack of tact? I never meant to offend you. I only wished to know why such a – such a _pretty_ girl as yourself would have a name such as that.” Harry knows that he’s probably laying it on a little thick, but it seems to do the trick.

“Oh, well I – I suppose if you didn’t – didn’t mean to, it’s alright, then.” If ghosts could blush, Harry would hazard a guess that Myrtle’s face is positively burning, if the way her face becomes suddenly more opaque is any indication. As if unwilling to show any genuine emotion other than self-pity, Myrtle suddenly puffs up, the tears miraculously drying from her face. “Come along with me.” She places a freezing hand on Harry’s bicep, and Harry is absolutely mortified to note that she seems to be positively _purring_ at the attention.

“I can see why he’s so excited to meet you… To have you _all_ to himself! Oh, what I wouldn’t do...” Her face is pinched as if she’s just tasted something particularly sour. Before he can ask about it, she attempts to tug him along, but only manages to slip right through him. Nevertheless, it thoroughly distracts him from his train of thought.

Harry shudders. _Fuck, that’s weird. And COLD! Jesus, she’s like the bloody arctic…_

She frowns down at his arm, before shrugging and pointing ahead, unperturbed. “We’re going that way.”

For the first time, Harry takes notice of the room he is in, and he thanks every deity he knows that there hadn’t been anything malevolent waiting in the shadows when he arrived. Though confusing, Moaning Myrtle didn’t count. _Though_ , he supposes, _if this is all in my own head, surely I wouldn’t meet anything evil and attack myself. That just seems silly._

_Still, what sense does an over-emotional ghost make?_

Brushing the thought aside, Harry takes stock of the room. It’s rather bare, actually, and kind of circular in shape. The floor is marble, beautiful and smooth, and the walls seem to be made of a deep wood, though they were so covered in overgrown vines and flowers that he can’t be completely sure. Now that he looks up, he sees that yes, the vines creep out from the tunnel to the walls, and that there seem to be cracks where they grow. 

He turns his head to fully take it in, and is shocked to find that there is a large, ornate mirror resting on the wall behind him. It’s probably twice the height of Harry and three times as wide, and it looks very, very old – he can’t imagine what it is doing here. Still, everything seems to be quite odd, here. Why not a mirror?

“Hey, Myrtle,” Harry says, tearing his gaze away from the glass. She turns around to face him, still slowly floating forward as he trails along behind. She raises her eyebrows. “Yes?”

 _Apparently she doesn’t stay shy for long_. “You said ‘he’. Who’s ‘he’? And where are we going, anyway?”

“The Hatter. And we’re getting you out of here, of course! What did you think I was doing? Taking you away to do _devious_ things to you? My, I had no idea you had such a dirty mind, Harry,” Myrtle says, giggling. She slides closer. Harry feels vaguely nauseous at the attention, but dismisses it in favor of tossing ‘The Hatter’ around in his head. _What the hell is ‘The Hatter’?_

Harry tries to move away as subtly as possible, before a sudden thought strikes him. “Hey, wait – my name! How did you know? I never told you.” _Though, if she_ is _a part of his head –_

He’s just about to tell her to forget about it when Myrtle’s voice banishes the thought. Her eyes shoot up, looking behind Harry, and he absently realizes that she is probably making direct eye contact with her reflection in the mirror when she says, “I didn’t! I never said anything of the sort!”

“But you _just_ said – ”

“NO, I DIDN’T!” she screeches, soaring to float near the ceiling by one of the walls. It’s covered copiously in vines, just like everything else here, but Harry’s attention is only for Myrtle. She looks positively _panicked_. “I DIDN’T SAY A WORD! STOP ASKING!”

Myrtle’s eyes start to glisten with unshed tears, and, sensing an approaching temper tantrum, Harry quickly attempts to defuse the situation. “Of course you didn’t, I must have misheard,” Harry murmurs soothingly. His curiosity is killing him, but if he can avoid another bout of wailing, he’d gladly do so.

 _Still_ , he thinks, _if she_ is _a part of his head, why would she be so panicked about saying his name? Something is_ off, _here._

_Or maybe this really isn’t in his head, after all._

Harry feels sick at the prospect. _Surely not?_

 _Look around you_ , an insidious voice whispers in the back of his head. _Does this feel like a dream to you?_

Distantly, Harry notices that Myrtle seems to have relaxed a little bit, though she still remains the slightest bit tense. She slowly floats to the floor, having ascended in her panic, though she makes no attempt to come closer to Harry. She watches him for a moment, and the tears almost seem to be threatening to return, but she just looks away, her eyes going to a particularly dense bit of greenery. 

Harry fidgets uneasily, the silence heavy with unsaid questions when Myrtle promptly turns all the way around and flies straight through the wall she’d been staring at.

Harry’s mouth pops open in shock. It takes him a moment to register what had just happened. _But… I guess it really isn’t so odd that she can just faze through walls like that, is it? She is a ghost, isn’t she?_

Just as he manages to recover from his disbelief, Myrtle’s head pops out from the wall, her expression annoyed, though much calmer than before. “What are you doing? We’re on a time limit!”

Harry startles, resisting the urge to snap back. Instead, he says, “Since when? If this is in my head,”–though he can’t say he’s completely sure that’s the case, now _–_ ”it seems silly that I’d put a time limit on myself, doesn’t it?” Nevertheless, he feels along the wall obediently, thankful that she had pulled her head back through to the other side so as to make his search less awkward. As he brushes his hand along the greenery, Harry is startled to find that the wall isn’t a wall at all, but rather a curtain made of vines.

He pushes it aside, and watches as torches identical to the ones in the tunnel above light themselves one by one. With the added light, Harry’s able to see that Myrtle has led him to a hall of doors, each one identical but for different symbols etched onto their faces. Only one door is different; it is the one nearest to him on the right, its symbol glowing as if molten lava flows through the crevices.

Myrtle’s voice tears him from his observations. “You don’t honestly believe this is all in your head, do you? It’s a real shame. So pretty, but so stupid.”

“I’m not stupid! It seems like a fair assumption, considering I’ve just fallen down some kind of rabbit’s hole and landed in some weird room with a – “ He chokes, searching for a better word than ‘ghost’, in fear that he might send her spiralling into another bout of tears, “ – a girl.”

“Hmph. If you say so. But I wouldn’t count on it; you’ll get yourself in trouble, thinking that.” She turns away, drifting down the hall and into what appears to be a room similar to the first. The hallway opens up directly into it, and as Harry approaches, he sees a round, glass table at its center, with a mirror identical to the one in the room Harry arrived in. On the table is a bottle, full of some shimmering, lilac-colored liquid that looks vaguely like perfume.

Harry follows, letting his hand drift along the walls, his fingers bumping over the ridges of the doors. He feels unease rise in his gut as he thinks over her response. “But how can this be real? Magical rabbit holes and–and apparitions like these don’t exist. None of this should be possible! I floated down here, for god’s sake! I should’ve died on impact.”

“Who says magic isn’t real? Maybe up there it isn’t, but down here, it certainly is.” Myrtle perches her ghostly form atop the glass table. “And reality is subjective. Just because it’s unfamiliar doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. And anyways, you need to go through there.”

Harry stares at her. _Still_ … _She has a point._

Harry turns his head to follow her pointing finger, and notices that there is a door, very similar to the ones in the hall, standing innocuously to the side of the room. He approaches it, trying the handle, but finds that it is locked. He peers through the keyhole, which, he realizes, is rather large for a keyhole, but considering the circumstances, it really isn’t the oddest thing he’s witnessed. Pushing the thought aside, he focuses his gaze on the world outside, and is met with beautiful bursts of color – green and red and blue and pink plants, all in varying shapes and sizes, sway in a meadow.

He stands, still unsettled, though more rejuvenated now that he has an escape from the dark room. “It’s locked,” he says, turning back around. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“I have no idea! Do I look like an instruction manual?” She crosses her arms. “You could try drinking the potion or something. I don’t really know what it’ll do, but it might help.”

Harry feels frustration creep up the back of his throat, but he pushes it down. He has better things to do. “Alright. I have to ask, though–Myrtle, where am I, exactly? You said ‘down here’. Where _is_ down here?”

“Wonderland, of course! Where else?” Myrtle smooths down her robes, and Harry is starkly reminded of Lavender doing the same when they met by the river, weeks ago. He feels a pang of homesickness. _If this is real… Would he ever see them again?_

“Let’s say–let’s say this is real. How do I get home? How do I get out of here?”

Myrtle looks affronted at the prospect. “Don’t ask me! I’m just supposed to point you away from here! You need to find the Hatter. He’ll tell you everything. Well, maybe not outright, but…”

“So if I find the Hatter, I’ll find a way home? You’re certain?”

“Yes, I’m certain!” Myrtle says, her voice going up an octave in irritation, obviously fed up with his questions. “What, do you not believe me? Do you think I’m a LIAR? DO YOU THINK I’M _LYING_ TO YOU? WHAT KIND OF GIRL DO YOU _TAKE ME FOR_ ?” She bursts into tears ( _a habit, apparently_ ), but that doesn’t seem to deter her anger. She takes a breath to continue (though Harry doubts she needs it, seeing as she is a _ghost_ ), and Harry rushes to fix the situation. “No, Myrtle, I didn’t – I’d never –”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE NICE!” She wails, the sheer power of the sound rattling Harry’s bones. Her tears are hitting the floor with little splashes, and Harry looks down in dismay to find that there are puddles forming on the floor from her crying. His eyes widen in shock, before he turns his gaze back to Myrtle, who only seems to be getting angrier, her tears getting bigger. He feels water rush around his ankles.

“Myrtle,” he says, belatedly, looking up at her pleadingly, “You’ve got to stop, you’re going to flood – “

“DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME WHAT I CAN AND CAN’T DO!” She screeches, her eyes shining with anger, glistening with tears. She rises from her spot on the table, looking down on Harry as he struggles to defend himself against the rock-sized droplets of water falling from her eyes. “I THOUGHT YOU WERE NICE, BUT YOU’RE JUST ANOTHER BULLY! NO WONDER THE HATTER WANTS YOU SO BADLY–YOU’RE THE SAME! WHY, I CAN’T BELIEVE I WAS _FLATTERED_ , YOU’RE JUST LIKE _HIM,_ SO _CHARMING_ , SO _MEAN_ – “

Harry hurriedly wades through the water, now up to his shins, slipping and sliding as he scrambles on top of the table. He is in such a panic he doesn’t notice when he knocks the small napkin into the water, but he _does_ see the small little bottle from earlier. He snatches it up, and, deciding it is probably his only option, downs the potion in one go. 

And then, he _shrinks_. 

He doesn’t realize it at first, and for a moment he becomes panicked that it does nothing, and he is going to drown, because Myrtle _won’t stop_ –

And then his bones begin to itch, and his muscles begin to burn, and his skin begins to tighten and the ceiling is getting further and further away and Myrtle is getting bigger and bigger and the water is beginning to creep over the edges of the table, now –

And then, it stops. And Harry, who previously hadn’t been very tall to begin with, is hardly the size of the bottle he’d just drunk from, barely a few inches high. 

He doesn’t even have time to marvel at the sheer _unfortunateness_ of his situation because Myrtle’s now booming rant is an all encompassing sound, reminding him of the danger he is in. Her tears are quickly becoming an ocean.

Harry casts a frantic look around. He briefly considers attempting to follow the water up to the top of the rabbit hole, but quickly dismisses the idea. There is no way he’ll be able to swim that far while so small. He continues looking and almost gives up hope when he sees it: the lock. The lock on the door! He’d noticed how large the keyhole was, earlier, and if it is big enough – if he can fit –

The water reaches his hips, now, and he barely remains standing under the onslaught. He makes his decision. The distance to the keyhole can’t be more than three feet, but looks like miles. 

He tucks his glasses into his trouser pocket alongside his pocket watch, praying neither will be washed away. 

_It’s now or never._

He runs as best he can to the edge. He jumps.

The water hits him like a slap in the face, and he immediately starts coughing, the salt stinging his eyes, but he keeps going, swimming blindly. The water is choppy, waves throwing him about like a rag doll, but he knows how to swim. He _can_ do this.

He cuts the water in neat strokes, his legs burning with the effort of staying afloat, let alone propelling himself forward. He tries to keep his breathing even, tries to keep the blurry light of the keyhole in sight –

A huge wave, stronger than any other, bowls him over, sending him tumbling through the water. He kicks frantically, his head breaking water, and he takes in air with strangled, spluttering gasps –

Water breaks over his head again, and he’s being dragged back down under. He struggles for the surface, his hands reaching up, but the current is too strong, and _he is going to drown, he is going to_ die –

He feels the undertow return with sudden force, sucking him down, down, _down_ –

And before he can blink, he is being thrown from the keyhole and tossed to the grass in a heap of tangled limbs, his clothes soaked and his body exhausted. Harry hacks and coughs, his lungs burning, his eyes streaming – and he falls back to the earth in exhaustion, his bleary eyes staring up at the blue sky. 

And he _laughs_.

How can he not? He’d just survived a 100 foot fall down a rabbit hole that should _not exist_ , was assaulted by a ghost, shrunk to the size of a bug, and nearly drowned in a sea of tears. Honestly, what _is_ his life?

Despite the insanity of it all, he knows one thing for certain, now: he can’t treat this like a dream, like it was all in his head.

His choked laughs stop abruptly, the thought sobering him. He can’t risk the chance that this is real, lest he never find his way back to Cedric and Lavender and Neville and McGonagall. They are all he has in the world, and he will _not_ abandon them, to insanity or otherwise.

He shoves his hand into his pocket, breathing a silent breath of relief when he feels the cold metal of the pocket watch and the sharp angles of his glasses. He shoves them back on his face, pressing the face of the watch to his lips. With a new surge of determination, he pushes himself to his feet. 

It takes a moment for it to register, but the sun isn’t high in the sky, as it should be. It’s nearly sunset, actually, not the early afternoon he’d been expecting. _Perhaps time moves differently, here..._

Harry shifts, antsy. He needs to hurry and try and find somewhere to stay the night. He turns his attention to his surroundings. The flowers he’d seen earlier were towering giants now, and he suddenly mourns the loss of whatever was in that napkin. It probably had something to do with making him bigger, if the little bottle was any indication. _Oh well. No use crying over spilled milk._

He picks a direction. He walks.

*

An hour later, Harry stops, sighing. His clothes are uncomfortable, though a bit drier than before, his feet hurt, and the sky is a dark purple by now, nearly black. He looks around, his eyes bleary with exhaustion. It seems near drowning was far more tiring than he’d assumed.

His gaze finds a large, towering sunflower, not too far in front of him. It isn’t impossible to climb–there are smaller flowers leading up to it, and if he’s careful, he can climb up the smaller flowers twining around the stem. It’d save him from having to sleep on the ground where anything can find him, so he’d take his chances.

Resigning himself to a night in the air, he scrambles atop a rock, slowly making his way up to the yellow flower by gripping onto other green leaves. There’s a light breeze, and the stems sway, nearly sending him toppling to his death–but he stays upright, if only through sheer force of will. By the time he manages to flop down onto the center of the sunflower, his muscles ache and his eyes are already half shut in exhaustion. He stares up through hazy eyes, the stars glinting above.

He smiles faintly. Even the stars are different, here.

His eyes flutter closed, and in moments, he’s dead to the world.

*

Tom doesn’t know whether to smirk or scream. Myrtle is just as emotional as ever, even dead as she is. She’s always been an annoying twit, even after he’d killed her. Despite his irritation, he can’t deny the satisfaction he feels at the fact that the boy is finally _here._ He’s in Wonderland. He is, after so long, within Tom’s grasp.

_But still, there is so much distance between them. So much left to chance –_

_Patience_.

He exhales sharply through his nose. He’d waited ten years. He can wait a day.

Tom turns away from the large mirror that stands against the wall of the bedroom. He can admit that watching Harry, so small and vulnerable, battling waves like that had sparked just the smallest bit of unease in his gut, but he brushes the thought away. Harry is more than competent. He was Tom’s most trusted, once upon a time. He would be again.

He places his tophat back atop his head, smoothing down the silky black lapels of his tailcoat with white, cotton gloves. He heads for the door, turning to take one last look at the bedroom. It is light, the walls cream-colored and the bed draped in a white comforter and gauzy white curtains that match those of the window. 

It isn’t the bedroom he’d originally planned for the boy to stay in, but one must work up to those types of things...

Still, Harry would be here, soon enough. Back where he belongs. Back _home_.

But first – someone had gotten a little too handsy with his possessions.

Time to have some _fun_. It’s been too long.

*

_Lavender clutched her namesake to her chest, walking slowly through the gardens of the cathedral. Harry watched as she chewed her lip nervously, a habit she had learned from him, no doubt. He didn’t know why she’d wanted to meet so earnestly, but the details didn’t matter._

_He urged his feet to move quicker, racing to meet her. “Lavender!”_

_She turned, her plain black skirts whirling as she did so. Her face brightened instantly. “Harry!”_

_He reached out, and she clutched his hands like a lifeline, a smile on her face, if strained. “I almost thought you weren’t going to come.”_

_“O ye of little faith! I’d never fail you, you know that. You seemed frantic. Are you alright? What’s happened?”_

_She fidgeted, her eyes looking anywhere but Harry’s.“Oh, it’s–well, it’s not really me I’m worried about. I just… Harry, I know the Dursleys are dreadful to you, and I know how awful that must be for your skin, and for your eyesight–stress is quite the ager–but, well, I’ll just say it.” She inhaled, steeling herself, before staring him pointblank in the face. “There’s a place here, in the Church. A place for you.”_

_Harry stiffened._ A place… in the Church? For _him?_

_“I don’t know, Lav… The Church? I can hardly behave myself at the Dursleys, there’s no way I’ll be able to tolerate that.” He laughed nervously, refusing to meet her eyes. “I appreciate the offer, I do, but I can’t. It’s not–it’s not me, you know? I’m sorry, I can’t. I won’t.” He fidgeted, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to disappoint her, but..._

_She sighed, but she didn’t sound surprised. “I knew you wouldn’t go for it,” she admitted, smiling ruefully. “We’re just all so worried about you! I’m getting dreadful bags under my eyes, losing sleep over it all. But oh, you’ll survive. You always do.”_

_Harry couldn’t help but feel amused at her, vain even despite her concern. Still, he felt a pang of guilt at her admission. He hadn’t meant to worry them; the opposite, in fact. He’d been trying to avoid it by keeping his circumstances a secret. “I never wanted to worry you,” he said aloud, squeezing her hands in a comforting gesture. “Don’t worry about me, yeah? I’ll be fine. Like you said, I always survive. We’ll leave it at that, alright?”_

_“But you promise you’ll take care of yourself? If anything happens–anything at all–you’ll go to McGonagall, or–or Cedric, alright? You went to them before, just–let us help you.”_

_“Yes, alright. I will.”_

_“Promise?” Her eyes were wide and imploring, begging him to agree. He sighed._

Damn.

_“Promise.”_

_And just like that, she pulled him into a fierce hug, before pushing him away, as if burnt. “Go! Before Sister Maria sees you. Oh, she’d skin me if she knew I was with you – “_

_Harry smirked. “What does she think I’m gonna do? I’m not into nuns, sorry to say – “_

_“Shoo! Go, you horrible boy!”_

_Harry laughed, but obediently retreated, making his way out of the garden. He didn’t need to see her to know that Lavender was sporting her own smile._

*

A day ago, if someone had told Harry that he’d be journeying through a world where everything was at least ten times bigger than it was supposed to be, he would’ve laughed in their face.

As it is, he can only make his way back down to the ground in the soft light of dawn, praying he doesn’t snap his neck on the way.

When he’d woken up just minutes earlier, he’d carefully peered over the edge, taking a moment to see what everything looked like from up above. The door that he’d come through earlier had disappeared into oblivion, only blue sky and flowers left in its wake. He had been lucky enough to land in a clearing, where, at the very least, he could gather his wits and recover from his near-drowning while still having a clear view of his surroundings from the sunflower. 

He makes his way through the grass, now, the blades waist high and nearly neon green. He’d stumbled across a few bugs, a ladybug or two, but made a point to walk pointedly around them. He’d lived with spiders in his small cupboard, but to actually be their size? Well, he never thought he’d see the day.

Like a flash, a series of visions fly through his head –

_“Aragog!”_

_A giant spider, blind, its pincers the size of broadswords –_

_A blurry, redheaded boy, yelling, “Harry!” –_

_A white light, black forms retreating, then surging back, stronger –_   
  


Harry crumples to his knees, clutching his face. His scar–one of his only interesting features, a lightning bolt shaped cut he’d gotten just before he left the orphanage–was burning, a fierce, searing pain that lances through his skull, a sharp pain just behind his eyelids.

Harry gasps, one of his hands bracing himself so he won’t fall forward into the cool earth. “What– _What is this?_ ” he wheezes. It’s a rhetorical question, obviously, but someone evidently doesn’t think so.

“It’s called dirt. Surely someone of your, ah, _stature_ would’ve heard of it?”

Harry waits for the pain to lessen, a constant, dull ache behind his right eye, before he slowly looks up. His glasses knocked askew, he isn’t entirely sure what he’s looking at. He fixes his glasses, the strange figure’s words registering in his head as he does so. “Of course I know what dirt is, I’m not an idio–woah! What the _fuck_ are you?”

“That’s extremely rude, but I suppose someone of your intelligence wouldn’t know how to speak without using such crude language,” The creature sneers, it’s insect-like face shifting under the faint, dappled sunlight falling through the flowers. It–It looks like a caterpillar, except for its black, metallic color–a shifting hue, with undertones of blue and purple. It’s face is paler, though, and human enough that Harry can identify its eyes, nose, and mouth–but the oddest thing, above all, is the hookah perched in one of its small hands.

“I–I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.” Harry’s face burns. _God, he can’t believe that thing had seen him, keeled over as if he was about to_ faint _–_

“Ah, yes, but that does seem to be a talent of yours, doesn’t it? Get up off the floor, you bumbling fool! Honestly, you’d think you didn’t have two brain cells to rub together. Though, I suppose, that may be the truth.” The creature–Harry assumes it’s a he, judging by the low drawl, but he’s hesitant to say so, in fear that it turns out like Myrtle (that is to say, absolutely _mad_ )–takes another draw of his hookah, releasing a ring of smoke into the air.

Harry scrambles to his feet, his face burning for an entirely different reason, now. He grits his teeth angrily, resisting the urge to point out the hypocrisy in the creature’s words. _How rude_ is _this thing?_

“Who _are_ you?” Harry asks, willing the irritation from his voice as he brushes the dirt from his shabby gray trousers. He looks up at the creature, only to find him watching him assessingly. 

“I think the real question,” the caterpillar begins slowly, taking another draw from his hookah, “is who–” a ring of smoke drifts from his mouth, “are,” the ring is blown in Harry’s face, and he sucks in the sweet smelling smoke, “–you?” Harry chokes, clutching his throat. The smoke burns, and he can feel the smugness radiating off the creature in waves.

Harry glares through watering eyes, coughing. “What did you do that for? And I asked you first, foul thing,” he says, ending in a mutter. The creature narrows his eyes at him, readjusting his position atop the mushroom head. 

“I am that I am,” he says, and Harry rolls his eyes at the nonanswer. 

“That’s a Bible quote,” he replies, his tone mocking. The creature huffs, and Harry smirks at him. He’ll have to thank Lavender later. _If he ever gets home, that is._ He shakes the thought away. “But really, give me a name or _something_ to call you – ”

The creature darts forward with startling speed, his face inches from Harry’s. “Fool! Names are dangerous things! Who are you to ask so flippantly? You’ll get yourself killed!”

Harry stumbles backward, narrowly managing to remain upright in his surprise at the creature’s sudden outburst. After regaining his footing, he looks up to find that the creature has regained his position, its back half lying atop the mushroom, the front half upright. He is still watching him, and Harry is taken aback at the utter loathing on the caterpillar’s face. _This thing hardly knows him!_

Harry chooses his next words carefully, his words slow and controlled. “Let me rephrase,” he begins, tugging a hand through his hair. “What would you _like_ me to call you?”

The creature looks ready to yell at him again but seemingly decides against it. “You may call me that which I am. The Caterpillar.” The words are polite enough, but his tone is entirely too condescending to be anything close to nice.

“The Caterpillar.” Harry tests the words on his tongue. He’d thought he was one, but hadn’t thought his name would simply be what he _is_ . _I am that I am, indeed._

He shakes his head, brushing the thought away. “Look, _Caterpillar_ ,” he starts, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “I’m looking for someone. I think he’s called the – “ He stops, mind blanking. _What the fuck had Myrtle called him? The… Handler? The Hitter? No, wait –_ “ – the Hatter.”

“You’ll have to attend tea to find him, boy,” the creature hums, blowing more smoke rings into the air.

“Attend _tea_? Look, I just want to get home! If you can’t help me find the Hatter, could you at least tell me how to get back to my normal size? Being stuck like this, I won’t be able to do a damn thing.”

“Watch your words, boy! You’re _my_ size,” the Caterpillar snarls. 

“Exactly,” Harry mutters. The Caterpillar eyes him nastily, his lips curled into a snarl. “How do I get bigger? ...Please,” he adds as an afterthought. 

“The answers are right in front of you. All you have to do is look at things from top to bottom, assuming you’re smart enough to do so. Surely you aren’t blind, no matter how miserable your vision may be behind those glasses?” He says, his voice harsh and derisive. “You’ve got all day. Surely that’s enough time for your miserable little mind?”

And before Harry can get a word out in response, the Caterpillar takes one long draw of his hookah and blows a ring of smoke around the rim of the mushroom, the smoke rising as Harry hacks and coughs at the sudden onslaught. In a dizzying cloud of smoke and incense, the Caterpillar disappears, the lingering wisps of purple smoke the only indication that he’d been there at all.

Harry chokes on the heavy scent of tobacco and licorice, his eyes and nose burning with it. “Argh,” he wheezes, clutching at his throat for the third time in an hour. As he recovers from his impromptu choking fit, he feels his anger build, until he is boiling with the utter frustration of it all. _Fuck, will he_ ever _get a straight answer here?_

He stands there for a moment, stewing in his anger. “‘Right in front of me,’ my arse,” he mutters furiously. He puts his hands on his hips, surveying the endless amounts of flowers three times his size, blades of grass that were so green they were practically fluorescent, the mushroom that was a mottled mess of crimson and white and–wait. 

The potion had to be drunk. Whatever was in the napkin had likely been edible, too. Right in front of him, edible, top to bottom–the mushroom?

Harry looks at the fungus in disbelief. Honestly, what _is_ the logic here?

 _None at all, apparently,_ he thinks bitterly.

He shakes his head, before marching forward determinedly. Using a nearby twig, he hits the mushroom until a small chunk flies off. He stoops down, picking up the tough plant. _Top to bottom–but which side will make him_ bigger?

He shrugs before prying off a piece of the top part and, after a moment of hesitation, popping it into his mouth. He’s never liked mushrooms. It’s one of the few foods he won’t eat. Past tense, now.

Within moments he feels the familiar itch. His skin and bones and muscles burn and stretch, and within a few agonizingly long seconds he is once again his regular height. He heaves a sigh of relief. _He cannot imagine being stuck at three inches forever, and he certainly doesn’t want to._

Harry surveys his surroundings with new eyes. He is in the middle of a small clearing, one that seems startling prairie-like. There’s a small pond not too far from him, and a small copse of trees ahead. It seems innocent enough, and the sun shines high above him, now, the clouds white and fluffy in the sky. He turns to look to his left and right, but is met only with more trees. 

He turns, looking back at where he’d arrived, and finds that the initial ‘clearing’ he’d landed in was rather a large circle ringed with mushrooms, just like the one the Caterpillar had been sitting on. Beyond that, there is a large prairie and a vast, purple mountain range. There seems to be something that looks suspiciously like ruins hiding among their points, but he dismisses it, for after a moment, the ruins disappear from sight, as if they’d never been there. 

Harry sighs. Nothing back there, then. It seems his only option is forward. 

He takes a step towards the trees before thinking better of it and crouching down. He plucks a handful of mushrooms, including the one he’d taken a piece of earlier and shoves them deep into his pocket. Who knows when they might come in handy?

That finished, he continues forward, and just as he is about to step foot amongst the trees, a shift in the grass pulls his sight away from the woods. He looks down, and will never admit to the shrill shriek he lets out at seeing that a snake is curling around his leg, hissing incessantly. He didn’t have a problem with snakes, really, but to have one _on him –_

Harry hops about on one foot, his arms flailing as he tries and fails to keep his balance. Too late, his feels his foot hit a rock at a wrong angle and before he knows it he’s toppling over, his arms whirling, his expression panicked –

_SPLASH!_

Harry lands arse first in the pond, the large crash of skin hitting water enough to startle off the small garden snake. He sits there for a moment, chest heaving in delayed shock, adrenaline pumping in his veins, before he laughs, and laughs, and _laughs_. It has a hysterical edge to it, but he can’t seem to stop. He clutches at his stomach, his loud, slightly insane mirth dissolving into quiet hiccups as his shoulders shake. 

He wipes tears from his eyes as he slowly sobers from his laughing fit, and he lets himself sit for a second, sucking in gasping breaths. _Is this always going to be his reaction to shocking situations, here? Laughing like a lunatic?_ It certainly does give credence to the theory that this is all in his head, but he knows that in his gut he really doesn’t believe it. No matter how crazy this is, he can’t help but think that there is something decidedly real about this place. Something familiar.

Harry shakes his head. _I need to get out of here._

He stands, and grimaces at the feeling of wet clothes. And just after he’d spent the night drying from his earlier impromptu swim. He sighs, shaking his head like a dog to rid himself of the excess water, continuing on his way. He passes through the trees, the wood passing by slowly, his mind occupied with other things. Namely, that mysterious vision he’d had. 

Harry has no idea where it came from. He knows of no one called Aragog, and he can’t place the redheaded boy. His face had been a blur, but Harry doesn’t personally know anyone with red hair, anyway, so that doesn’t explain why he’d seen him. 

It’s just so unbelievably _odd_.

_Snap!_

Harry stops abruptly. He turns in a quick circle, assessing his surroundings, but comes up empty-handed. He appears to be entirely alone, so what –

He freezes. Not four feet away is a girl, clad in a blue pinafore and white apron and shiny, black Mary Janes, her gaze focused on the ground, her hands buried in the flowers –

The girl’s head flies up, and he only catches a glimpse of silver eyes before she is running, faster than anyone Harry has ever seen. Before Harry knows it he’s following, his feet pounding against earth as he races after that mysterious figure, the one that had led him here, that had started it all –

The woods pass in a flash of color and he doesn’t even notice how fast he’s breathing, how his blood races in anticipation, how the woods seem to be getting darker, thicker, the air becoming noticeably heavier before he is stumbling to a stop before a wrought iron gate. His chest heaves with exertion, his hair and clothes plastered to his face both with the moisture of the pond and the sweat of the chase.

Harry wipes his forehead, searching desperately for that familiar flash of blue, and watches in frantic disappointment as his eyes continue to tell him that there is no one there. 

Harry lets out a groan of frustration. _How does this keep happening?_

He looks over his shoulder, desperate for his mysterious guide, and is momentarily thrown from his ardent search when he realizes just how deep into the forest he’s gone. The trees seem to be blacker than before, hardly the rich, warm brown they’d been when he’d entered–the leaves are melded together, as if of one cohesive unit, and the air hangs low with mist. The only sound is Harry’s heavy breathing, and even that seems unnatural in the heavy silence.

It is beyond ominous.

It feels downright _menacing_.

Harry’s eyes dart back and forth across the trees. Even as alone as he seems to be, he feels like he is being watched. Observed, like some sort of caged animal.

He jerks his head back around. He places a hesitant hand on the rusted gate, looking beyond it. It surrounds some sort of yard. Fog clings low to the ground, tendrils of mist curling lovingly around Harry’s wrist, as if beckoning him forward. The mist looks about four feet high–a sea of ominous promise. Harry can faintly make out hedges along the perimeter of the gate, bushes of thorns and dead roses spread throughout the mysterious plot of land. 

He strains on his tiptoes to get a better view, and, as if parted by a large, gasping breath of air, the mist unfurls, exposing slabs of stone and marble, statues of angels and grim reapers, and rising above it all, a building of white, with a thin, sharp spire –

It is a graveyard.

And it seems–in the most unsettling of ways– _alive._

Harry takes a deep breath, his eyes drifting closed. There is nothing behind him, he knows, even if he can still feel the unsettling weight of a gaze on the back of his neck. If he wants answers, he has to keep going forward.

He opens his eyes and pushes open the gate, the creak of rusting iron sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness.

_Lord, please don’t let me regret this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hint of Tom in this one! Until he appears (and he will appear, Harry’s just gotta find him, first), there will be little sneak peeks of what he’s up to. There will also be flashbacks to Harry’s time at the Dursleys, just to give a little background to his friendships with the squad. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for all the kind comments I got on the first few chapters, it means a lot! <3


	4. PART ONE: Graveyard

Tom eyes his gloves with disdain as the blood slowly soaks through the white material. 

“Tch.” He peels the fabric from his skin and throws them carelessly to the floor, uncaring of the stain they will leave on the concrete. He has no use for them, anyway. He is finished for tonight. 

He turns, his gaze once more settling on his victim. The man’s skin is pale, partly from fear, and Tom relishes in the effect he has on him, but he knows it’s mostly due to blood loss. The ritual didn’t specify how much is needed, after all. Better to have too much than too little.

It is quite rejuvenating to let out some of his frustration on a warm body, Tom thinks. Specifically the one before him, for how positively _irritating_ he has proven to be.

Tom looks at him, then, and strides forward, his gait calm and collected, before swiftly punching him across the face. The man doesn’t fall – he can’t, seeing as he is tied to a chair, but Tom revels in the way he shakes with fear. He watches in satisfaction as the man heaves a breath, struggling to find his composure.

“Why are you doing this?” the man finally rasps, his golden-brown eyes turning to look at Tom. “I did everything right. I don’t know what else you _want_!”

Tom narrows his eyes. “You got too close,” Tom hisses, flexing his hand. “You knew the rules, and you broke them. There are _consequences_ for disobedience.”

The captive watches Tom with venom in his eyes, and he spits the blood from his mouth in clear disgust. “Just because I kissed him when you _couldn’t_ doesn’t give you – ”

Tom’s hand shoots out like a snake, wrapping around Cedric Diggory’s thin neck. His eyes go wide, his mouth gasping in a futile attempt for air. Tom bends low, his face level with his captive’s. “Don’t you dare compare yourself to me,” he snarls, his voice low, murderous. He flexes his hand, squeezing tighter. “He is _mine_. You directly disobeyed orders. I will let you live, boy. Next time… Well.” He chuckles harshly, his nails digging into delicate skin. “There won’t be one, will there?”

Tom squeezes tighter, and Diggory nods roughly, even as his face contorts with sheer hatred. Moderately satisfied, Tom releases his grip, shoving him away. Diggory falls back, wheezing and coughing, his eyes streaming. Tom turns to leave, but hardly gets the chance to turn his back when the man shouts, “Wait!”

His jaw clenches. He’s tempted to just leave him there, but…

He turn around to face his captive once more, slow and threatening. Diggory, seemingly encouraged by the silent acknowledgement, continues hoarsely, “The others? Are they all right?”

“Not that it concerns you…” Tom says, watching carefully, “But they are awaiting instruction. They will not come into play until later. Much later.”

“And Lavender? She doesn’t know hardly anything about this place, she won’t _survive_ here,” the boy says, desperate. “She needs to go back.”

“Brown will do exactly as I tell her to,” Tom says, stepping forward menacingly. His tone is downright dangerous, but he keeps his face in an expression of placid indifference. “But, because I am rather pleased with recent developments… She will be released to Dumbledore once she has fulfilled her purpose. She will be of no use once I get what I want, then.”

“And Harry?” The boy’s eyes blaze gold. “Is he–?”

“ _Don’t_ say his name,” Tom bites out. He watches him with undisguised loathing. What he wouldn’t _give_ to have this man broken and bleeding out before him. “He is on his way to remembering. He and I will be… _reacquainted_ , soon enough.” He smiles, and Diggory blanches at the innuendo that laces his tone.

Tom turns, then, preparing to make his exit, when the man calls out, “And if he doesn’t? Remember?”

Tom inclines his head slightly, but otherwise makes no motion to turn back around. He lets loose a breath, willing away the rage that threatens to crawl up the back of his throat. He steadies himself, collects his thoughts, and, in a voice that is icy with conviction, says, “He will.”

He leaves Cedric Diggory, still wheezing, in the dark room, the cellar door slamming behind him.

*

_The cemetery was cold at night, even on the hottest summer days. They walked side by side in silence, their shoulders brushing as they walked. They looked like they could’ve been family, perhaps even brothers. In their minds, they were._

_“You–you don’t think that she’ll… She’ll die, do you? I mean…” Neville took a shuddering inhale, his breath misting in the frigid winter air._

_Harry hated that he had no idea. He shrugged, sighing. “I don’t know. But you can’t let it stop you from moving forward. You’ll survive. It sucks–believe me, I know–but you’ll survive. You learn to.”_

_Neville ducked his head, and even if he couldn’t see it, Harry knew that there were tears in his eyes. Harry had never been good at comforting others, but nevertheless, he placed a gentle hand on Neville’s shoulder, squeezing it as they came to a stop in front of Neville’s grandfather’s grave._

Longbottom, _it read, in fine, cursive print. Neville stooped down, brushing snow from the sparkling granite. He was trembling, and not from the cold._

_Harry crouched down next to him, careful not to jostle the other boy. “I’ll always be here for you, Neville. No matter what.”_

_Neville nodded, his face hidden under his hat. “I know, I’m just worried, is all. My parents, they’re–they’re not exactly in a sane mental state, and they won’t be able to manage everything, and I can’t–I’m not –”_

_Harry turned to face the other boy fully, placing a firm grip on both of his shoulders, forcing him to look at him. “You_ will _get through this. If your grandmother dies… If she dies, then you’ll keep going. McGonagall will take care of you, she’ll show you what to do, and you’ll go on. I’m–I’m going to ask her to talk to the Dursleys. She’ll help us, Neville. I know she will. You just–you have to keep going.”_

_Neville watched him with shining eyes, his expression crumpled with worry. “But what if I can’t?” he whispered, the tears spilling freely now. “I can’t lose her, Harry. I can’t. She’s all I have.”_

_“You’ve got us. And she–she could still get better. You just have to keep going. Can you promise me that?” Harry took a breath, closing his eyes. “I’m–I’m working on the Dursleys. If I can keep going, can you? Can we promise each other that?”_

_Neville hesitated, before nodding. “Yeah,” he murmured, finally. “Yeah, we can do that.”_

_Harry smiled, a small, weary thing, before leaning away. He stood, brushed off his trousers with his ratty gloves, and offered a hand to his crouching friend. “Come on. I know she wants to see you.”_

_Neville looked at Harry’s hand for a few moments, his expression indecipherable, before taking it in a firm grip and standing, pulling Harry to him in a strong embrace. Harry stiffened in surprise, but soon relaxed into the hug, his arms coming up to wrap around the other boy. “Thank you, Harry,” Neville whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “You’re a good friend.”_

_“You too. Though a little room to breathe could go a long way,” he joked quietly, breaking the moment._

_Neville released his bone-crushing grip immediately, laughing wetly. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just nice. To have someone to talk to, about this.”_

_Harry grinned. “Yeah. C’mon, let’s go.”_

_The snow fell around them as they left the graveyard, soon undoing Neville’s attempt to make his family grave visible._

*

The graveyard is eerily silent, the gate like ice beneath Harry’s fingers. He takes a careful step onto the hallowed ground, and a quick look down reveals that the ground is frozen, the blades of grass like miniature glass swords. It is beautiful, in its own way. 

Harry holds his breath as he takes a few more steps forward, though he doesn’t know why. It’s not like it will make much of a difference, when his crunching footsteps are already rather loud in the quiet.

He takes one last glance behind him. The forest is just as dark as it’d been moments ago, the only difference being the one more yard between him and the treeline. “I’m being foolish,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head. He turns back around and takes another step forward, careful not to step on any of the carved slabs of marble and granite. It is… oddly peaceful, the graveyard. It probably would’ve been almost comforting had it not had such an ominous air about it.

Harry’s gaze sweeps across the statues of angels and grim reapers, noting that there are a few bouquets left for the deceased, though the flowers are long dead, now. He creeps past row upon row of stone, his eyes wandering across their carved surfaces. Names like _‘Dumbledore’_ and _‘Lovegood’_ pass by on his right, _‘Prince’_ and _‘Black’_ on his left, all under his watchful gaze, but what really draws his attention is the fact that quite a few of the graves are, in fact, blank–as if awaiting their occupant. The thought makes him shudder. Will he be among them, one day? Is his final resting place already picked out, just lying in wait for when he inevitably makes his last, lethal mistake?

Harry thrusts his hand into his pocket out of habit, and he is startled to find that the pocket watch is warm, heat coming off of the normally cool metal in waves. As if like a miniature lightning strike, a jolt of electricity travels up Harry’s fingers and zips up his arm before settling in his chest, right under his heart, a spark of anticipation that seems to become stronger the closer he comes to the white church at the center.

Harry’s eyes widen in surprise, and he pulls the timepiece from his pocket, staring down at it. “What the…”

He peers more closely at it, and frowns when he sees that it doesn’t seem to have changed, except–

The hands. 

Harry is fairly certain that they’d been stuck at 12:15, but now…

It reads 12 o’clock, both hands pointing straight ahead, as if magnetized. Curiously, Harry points the watch slightly to the right, and sharply inhales when the hands continue pointing directly at the church.

It is almost like a compass, except its north is whatever is inside that chapel.

Harry looks up, his eyes raking over the slightly decrepit building. The walls are draped in thorns, the archway hidden beneath brambles, the door old and dark and rotten. The building is fairly plain, the dead foliage doing little to add to its appeal, but on the door’s archway there is a symbol: it looks like a triangle, a circle at its center with a line neatly bisecting it. Harry looks at it in wonder.

_What on earth..._

Harry tears his eyes away. Other than the odd marker, there’s nothing all that special about the small chapel. Still, Harry can sense that there is something distinctly off about it. As if it is waiting for something… 

Waiting for _him…_

Harry feels the cold fingers of unease creep up his spine, the pocket watch, once a source of comfort, now only serving to bolster his trepidation. It is a normal pocket watch, had been for years…

_(Burns on his uncle’s hand, whispers in his head, warmth in his heart – )_

...So why is it suddenly responding _now_?

 _It’s gotta be this place,_ Harry thinks, eyeing up the church skeptically. _What other explanation is there?_

He brushes the thought away, taking a deep breath and steeling himself. He casts a final glance around the graveyard, everything just the same and just as still as it had been moments ago. Not even the wind dares to disturb the peace.

Harry turns back to the church, the pocket watch held firmly in front of him. He takes a wary step forward, then another, and another, until he is able to grab the large, looping handle, just as rusted as the wrought iron gate. He wrenches the door open, as if hoping to use the element of surprise to his advantage should someone be waiting on the other side. 

It’s all for naught. The inside of the church is just as devoid of life as the outside, though it is certainly more colorful. It isn’t simply monochrome, like the outside, but rather, seems to be split into three distinct sections of color: one side is bathed in white light, the other in shadows, and the back–the back is the color of roses, of freshly spilled blood–it is crimson, and for a reason Harry can’t explain, the red makes him feel more at ease than he’s comfortable with.

Harry takes a tentative step into the building, shoving the timepiece into his pocket once more as his shoe makes a soft sound against the stone. He allows the heavy wooden door to fall shut behind him with a _slam_ as he drinks in the interior of the chapel. There are pews, just as there are in most churches, but it’s peculiar–several of the pews are facing different directions. A few face the wall to Harry’s right, resting perfectly within the white lighting; some to the left, to the dark shadows, and some to the very back. The red. 

Also unusual is that rather than one altar, there are three, each resting within its domain of color, just a few feet from large stained glass windows.

Harry walks through the center aisle, his interest captured by the windows. The white window, in a most peculiar fashion, shows a stone of some sort at its center, specks of gold shimmering on the surface. There are two sets of hands also in the image, two of them reaching for each other, the others reaching for the stone. Underneath the window, on the altar, lay a vase of white daffodils. 

Harry looks on it, puzzled. _What kind of religion_ is _this_?

Harry turns, his gaze switching sides to the dark window. He balks almost immediately. It’s so simple, and yet, there is something so _dark_ about it. It shows the image of a stick, someone holding it up high, golden sparks flying from the tip. It seems distinctly dangerous, this window, but at the same time, very dull; forgotten. Almost _dead_. 

Harry shakes his head, casting his gaze to the altar. There are black, wilted roses underneath, with the exception of one–a beautiful, vibrant red, standing proud beneath the glass. Harry’s nearly positive that the thorns are exceptionally sharp.

Swallowing back his trepidation, Harry hurries past to the third and final window. It, unlike the others, shows three sets of hands–each holding onto a cloak, as if brought together because of it. Harry studies it with a fervor that seems exceedingly odd compared to how he’d regarded the others, but there’s just _something_ about this one, like a tugging at the back of his mind. This window, it seems–it seems to be _calling_ to him. 

As if in a trance, Harry finds his body moving closer to the colored glass, his hand reaching out to touch it. He hesitates, his breath catching in his throat, before he gently grazes his fingertips along the smooth surface. All at once, the picture of the cloak begins to _glow_.

Harry watches in wonder as the image of the cloak turns to a shimmering, shining gold, before it seems to almost _part_ from the glass, a web of sparkling light as it settles over Harry. Harry gasps in surprise when he pulls away, the material staying with him. It settles to something less bright, but no less enchanting. 

Harry holds up his hands in wonder, and takes a step back when he doesn’t see anything but empty air, where instead there should be skin and blood and bone. He rips the material from his body in surprise, and watches as, almost like water falling from his skin, the cloak falls away to reveal his arms, tinted red in the light. 

He gapes, before laughing, giddy. _A cloak that turns him invisible–what a_ world _this is._

He admires the cloak, unaware of the passage of time as the fabric shifts like water in his hands. After what could’ve been a minute or an hour he manages to tear his eyes away from the magical item, stepping back to cast a critical eye over the window and the altar once more. There are lilies under this one –  
  


_(Like his mother; like her green eyes, bright and bold and beautiful, like her laughter, soft like music, soft like wind chimes – )_

– a sea of them, far more than any of the others, and, as he peers closer, he notices that there is a plaque beneath the glass, bolted to the wall. There are several different names on it, none of them recognizable to Harry, until he reaches the center, where in big, bold letters, it reads:

_In memory of the monarchy and the last true source of hope._

_Rest in peace,_

_James Potter, King of the Red, the Phoenix Era;_

_Lily Potter, Queen Consort of the Red, the Phoenix Era;_

_Harry Potter, Prince and Heir of the Red, the New Age._

Harry’s breath stutters to a halt, his mind going numb. “Mum?” He whispers, tracing the name with a finger. Unbidden, he feels his eyes sting, and he struggles to swallow around the lump in his throat. “Dad?” His finger follows the engraved letters, lovingly caressing the memory of them. And… _and –_

 _This shouldn’t be possible_ , he thinks. _My parents weren’t royalty, and–and even if they were, (which they weren’t, how could they have been?) this is impossible. I’m not dead! I’m_ not dead!

He stumbles back, his eyes wide in disbelief, the tears slowly dissipating into denial. _No, no no no, that’s it–that decides it! I’m insane, I’ve finally done it, I’ve gone_ crazy –

Harry turns around, the cloak clutched tightly in his fingers as he tries to put as much space between himself and his parents’ names as possible, head reeling. _Not possible, this isn’t_ possible...

He almost makes it to the door when he feels a cool wind brush against the side of his face. _“Harry,”_ it seems to whisper, freezing him in place. It’s soft, goading–downright _playful_ . _“Sweetheart…”_

He turns his head, stumbling back in fear when he sees the faint black outline of a man, standing like a phantom before the altar bathed in shadow. Harry blinks, and, within the span of a second, the phantom disappears, as if it had never been there. Harry finds his gaze falling to the space behind it, and gasps at the sight. Resting on the altar, innocent and taunting, is a little black book with faint, gold edging. 

Harry rubs his eyes in disbelief, but when he looks again, it is still there, as if it always had been. _Except it couldn’t have been, because he’d just been over there and there had been no diary, no phantom man, no whispers, no_ wind –

Harry feels himself inch forward almost unwillingly, his hand closing around the diary without a second thought, and, with that one second of contact, Harry knows he never wants to let go.

The diary feels natural, in ways he can’t explain. It transcends even the comfort the watch supplies–it feels like it is calling to Harry’s very soul, a yearning that rings out in the air of the mysterious chapel. 

Harry startles. _What the_ fuck _is he doing?_

He’s just about to put back the diary when he hears a faint _crack_ . It’s hardly more than a whisper, but even so, he casts his gaze around the chapel. There’s nothing–nothing that could’ve produced such a noise. He nearly disregards it, (this is an old, run down church, after all) but then, as if aware of his dismissal, a shaft of pure light hits his face, blinding him. Harry holds his hand up, squinting against the glare, when another resounding _crack_ fills the air, and then –

_CRASH!_

Harry watches, his eyes squinted and his mouth open in horror as all three stained glass windows simultaneously shatter, the shards of glass flying about the chapel as if stirred up by a miniature hurricane. 

Reacting purely by instinct, Harry throws himself beneath the altar, hunching over the cloak and the diary, as if afraid they’ll be wrenched from his hands by whatever caused the mysterious blast.

Harry’s whole body shakes with adrenaline, his eyes wide and panicked as his ears ring with shock. His breath comes quickly, and he doesn’t know if it’s from the sudden shock or the absolute fear he feels at the prospect that the diary could’ve been damaged in any way. 

He doesn’t have time to examine _that_ reaction.

The diary seems to be radiating a disapproving air at the thought, but Harry refuses to acknowledge it. At this rate, things have been so bizarre already he might as well just go with it.

He shakes his head, hopefully dislodging any stray shards of glass, before slowly peeking out from under his hiding place. 

It’s one thing to know what happened, and another thing entirely to actually _see_ it.

All of the windows are blown out, multicolored shards scattered across the floor of the church, flowers littered among them, like some odd, bloodstained greyscale. 

Harry warily stands, and his eyes catch on a small piece of parchment, buried beneath the glass and flowers. _It must’ve been buried beneath the lilies on the altar,_ he thinks, bending to pick it up _._

_BANG!_

As if shot from a pistol, a flash of red light streaks over Harry’s bent form, teasing the edges of his hair as it flies through the air, right where his head had been only seconds earlier. He whips his head around, eyes widening as he sees several dark figures pointing and shouting frantically from outside the graveyard. Quick as lightning another flash of light is being sent towards him, and before Harry can even fully register it, he is ducking into a roll, the diary and cloak firmly in his grip. The beam of light hits the wall with a loud _BOOM_ and Harry retreats to the wall directly underneath where the dark window had been as dust and debris rain from the ceiling. 

Judging from the large scorch mark, these people aren’t particularly fond of him. Not entirely unexpected, if the Caterpillar was anything to go by.

He casts a frantic look around the chapel, and quickly realizes that if he wants to get out of this alive, he can’t stay in the chapel. They ( _whoever ‘_ they’ _are_ ) are going to come in sooner or later, and his only option is to run, because he certainly can’t fight. 

He tries to reassure himself. _I’ve gotten out of worse scrapes than this, surely._

Another earth-shattering _BOOM_ rocks the foundations of the church.

He flinches. _Okay, maybe not._

Harry quickly glances out of the opening where the white window was and sees more figures, though they haven’t gotten within the iron fence just yet. They seem to be moving towards the front, where Harry had entered. Taking a deep breath, Harry slides against the wall, until he is in the corner, right next to the red altar. A quick look confirms that there’s no one there. 

His hand slides against the cloak as he moves further along, and Harry curses his stupidity as he throws the cloak over himself, praying that the trick it’d pulled earlier will work once more.

Harry takes a breath, and in the next moment springs to his feet, jumping onto the altar and launching himself out of the red window just as the doors blow inward. He doesn’t look back; he instead hits the ground running, dodging flashes of light as they streak past his (hopefully) invisible form. The cloak seemed to be working at least a little bit, because the flashes of color seemed to be always slightly off their target. 

Harry soars over graves and headstones, swerving around statues and pillars, careful to keep his head ducked down. The edge of the fence is _right there_ , if he can just jump atop a headstone, launch himself over the edge–he can feel the cloak flapping around his ankles, the diary warming in his grip, as if in warning –

And all of a sudden his whole body seems to be on fire, his vision going red, his eyes stinging, his throat tearing –

“Take my hand!”

Harry’s vision blurs, his feet slipping out from under him. A blur of blue, of pale skin and blonde hair, perched atop the fence, hand outstretched –

“ _Harry, take my hand!_ ”

A final push of his feet, his hand rising those precious inches–

– and he does, vanishing with a soft _pop_ , the graveyard disappearing in a whirl of color and sound behind him.

*

_“That was foolish, Harry. I will always do my best to help you, you know that.” McGonagall surveyed him from behind her desk, her gaze stern, though soft around the edges._

_Harry nodded, his stare trained on the hands in his lap. They were clenched together tightly, the knuckles white. He could feel embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck, not helped by the fact that Cedric and Neville were here to witness it. “Yes, ma’am.”_

_She sighed, and even without looking at her, he knew she was watching him with obvious concern. “Potter, how long have they been keeping you there?”_

_He mumbled the words under his breath, and only after further prompting could he bring himself to whisper, “Since I got here, ma’am.”_

_Harry watched, still and silent, as Cedric took his hand from his spot in the seat next to him. “Breathe,” he murmured. “This isn’t a trial–we’re here to help.”_

_Harry nodded minutely, and Cedric seemed to deem that satisfactory, for he turned his gaze back to McGonagall once more. Harry could feel the weight of Neville’s gaze in the side of his skull, and wished desperately that he would follow Cedric’s lead and look at McGonagall, too._

_“All this time?” McGonagall asked, though it sounded more like a demand, and Harry could tell she was trying to reign in her temper. Harry felt gratefulness wash over him in waves when Cedric answered for him, but it quickly plummeted when he heard the end. “Yes. I asked what else they’d done, but he wouldn’t say.”_

_Harry felt the heat of all three of their combined gazes as they drilled holes into his downturned face. “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Potter? I need to know if there’s anything else. It’s for your own safety.”_

_Harry shook his head quickly, his head turning up but his eyes never meeting McGonagall’s. “That’s it. Just the cupboard.”_

_“Are you sure?” She leant in, and Harry finally met her eyes, then, trying to convey the sincerity of his words–no matter how big of a lie they were. He nodded his head more slowly this time, but didn’t back down from his answer. “Yes, ma’am.”_

_She leant back, tapping a silver fountain pen against her desk. It was mahogany, thick and sturdy, just like every other piece of furniture in her office. Technically, she didn’t run the school, but she_ was _rich enough to own it. It used to be her husband’s, but after he died, she proved herself to be a suitable caretaker for it._

_And caretaker she was. “If there’s anything else, come to me immediately, understand? This is a serious matter, Potter.” Her voice was strict, brooking no arguments._

_He nodded, the edges of his mouth curling up into a tentative smile. He hated lying, but he hated making trouble for the people he loved even more. Still, when they showed just how much they cared… When they cared, he felt like he could_ breathe. _“I will.”_

_She eyed him skeptically, as if she could see right through him, but nodded sharply after a moment, her mind made up. “Well then. I suppose it’s time I make a visit to the Dursley family.” She stood, brushing her gloved hands over her large hooped skirt, the material dark and plain. It fit her to a tee._

_Madam McGonagall rounded the desk, holding out a hand for Harry to take. “Take my hand, Harry. It’s time we fixed this.”_

_A real smile unfurled on his face as she said his name. His_ first _name._

_He took her hand, and McGonagall smiled, a small thing, Cedric beaming from beside Harry all the while. She sent a sharp look Neville’s way, though her expression was still gentle. “We’ll talk soon, yes?”_

_Neville nodded. “Of course, Professor.”_

_She nodded decisively. “Then if that’s all settled, let’s go.”_

_Harry had his own bedroom by the end of the day._

*

Harry lands on his knees in soft grass, his vision blurring. Even through the pain he can tell they’d landed in a different part of the forest, but before he can try to make it out any more clearly, he feels himself listing to the side, the pain so intense he can’t bring himself to care. Before he can hit the ground, though, two small hands land on his shoulders, steadying him. Something blunt rests gently underneath Harry’s jaw, and he watches with hazy vision as the pale face in front of him looks at him intently, concentrating.

“ _Surgito_ ,” the girl–for it _is_ a girl, he can tell that much through the pain–hums, and like a soothing balm, the pain washes away, leaving Harry a blinking, disoriented mess. He waits with bated breath as his vision clears, praying that the girl–the _guide_ –that he’d been chasing after since before he even got here doesn’t suddenly try and run, as she had so many other times before.

He blinks once more, and, like a flipped switch, the girl’s face appears with startling clarity. She has pale skin, large, silver eyes that seem slightly out of focus and yet razor sharp, and pale eyebrows that make her seem slightly ethereal. Her tangled, blonde hair is held back in a black ribbon on her head, and she has a concerned expression on her face. Seeing that he seems to be okay, her expression clears and is replaced with a bright, happy smile.

“I was a little worried for a moment, there,” she says, and her voice seems to have a musical quality to it. “Her guards are quite rude, aren’t they?”

Harry blinks. “Her guards?” he asks, wincing at the hoarseness of his voice. He clears it, repeating the question. The girl doesn’t seem to mind the sudden question, or to hear him at all, really. Harry almost says it for a third time when she sagely replies, “The Red Queen, of course. She’s not very nice, from what I’ve heard.”

Harry waits for her to elaborate, and when she doesn’t, huffs in annoyance as he resolves to ask later. He leans away from where the mysterious girl who is still watching him intently, her face only inches from his own. “Do you think you could stop poking me? It’s kind of uncomfortable.”

“Oh, yes,” she hums, seemingly surprised at the fact that she was still doing so. She removes what he could now see was an intricately carved stick and puts it in the waistband of her white, lace-trimmed apron. She stands, and Harry takes the chance to tuck the diary into the back of his belt for safe keeping, the cloak looped through one of his belt loops for the same reason. 

When he has everything secured, the girl helps him to his feet, careful to support his still shaking legs. He sways slightly, black spots appearing in his eyes, but he rapidly recovers, questions pouring, unbidden, from his lips.

“Who are you?” He asks, the words calling the Caterpillar’s face to mind. He feels like a broken record, always repeating the same things.

But the girl only smiles, a distinct air of blithe whimsy about her. “I’m the Rabbit,” she says brightly, releasing his hands to brush off her skirt. 

“Is everyone affiliated with some kind of animal, here?” Harry mutters. It’s a rhetorical question, but Harry should’ve known that someone called ‘the Rabbit’ wouldn’t have taken it as one, just by looking at her.  
  
“Most of them. I suppose you’d want to know why…”

She suddenly turns to him, clapping her hands, and Harry watches in disbelief as, like magic, two bunny ears appear atop the girl’s blonde head. She laughs lightly at his expression. “It’s just an illusion! It’s like a partial Animagus transformation, except it’s more for show than anything else… It’s a pity I couldn’t grow flowers atop my head, but I suppose everything has its limits.”

Harry mouths the word ‘Animagus’ dubiously, watching ‘the Rabbit’ with a skeptical eye. He shakes his head, brushing the thought away. He has more important things to worry about, like– “Er, Rabbit–if that’s what you want me to call you – “

“Luna,” she interrupts, and Harry can’t bring himself to be irritated at it. “I never thought Rabbit suited me. Perhaps nargle, though I don’t think it’d be very easy to partially transfigure into one of those… They’re rather tricky creatures, aren’t they?”

“Sure,” Harry says, anxious to get some answers. Hopefully. No one’s been very helpful, so far. He watches absently as she pets the rabbit ears before they disappear once more. He shakes his head, returning his attention to the matter at hand. “Alright, _Luna_ , I have to know–you’re the one I followed, right? Can you tell me why you brought me here? Or, even better, what’s going on? Myrtle didn’t tell me much, especially not after I made her angry, so do you think you could fill me in? I’m rather lost, at the moment.”

“You’re never lost until you don’t know where you’re going,” she says solemnly, but she’s nodding, and Harry takes that as a good sign. “But I’ll try. Though I’ve never been very good at answering things; people say I’m much too confusing. Anyway, yes, I’m the one you’ve been chasing. They ‘why’ is up to you, though, isn’t it?”

Harry laughs, perhaps a little hysterically. “Don’t worry about being confusing; everything else in this blasted place is. But do you know how to get me home? Or to the Hatter? Everyone’s been telling me he’s the one to find if I want to leave.”

Luna watches him, her gaze simultaneously far away and hyper analyzing. She bobs her head, the motion slow, as if considering. “He may not help you _leave_ , but he’ll definitely help you. Though his definition of help is up for interpretation.” She brightens after a moment, her face shining in excitement, and before Harry knows it, she is bouncing up and down, like a child awaiting their birthday party. “Come on, I’ve got a surprise!”

Before Harry can ask she takes one of his hands in her gloved one, pulling him with her to some unnamed destination. Harry has so many questions that need answering, but for the moment, Harry decides to just let himself enjoy the moment. He’s almost died twice in the last two days, after all. He deserves a breather.

That in mind, he casts his gaze to the trees. He seems to be in another part of the forest, not that different from the one by the graveyard, if brighter and less ominous. 

He turns his gaze to Luna, following mutely as she leads him through the forest. 

*

After what could’ve been minutes or miles, Harry really isn’t sure, (time seems to move oddly, here) he can see a large clearing, with rolling hills and a sparse scattering of trees and flower bushes, a cottage in the distance. The main attraction, though, has to be the large dining table set point blank in the center of the vast green, several plates and dishes strewn along its surface. 

Harry takes a long, slow look at the table, before turning his questioning gaze to Luna. She doesn’t seem to have any problem with the odd dining table sitting smack-dab in the middle of someone’s yard, so he thinks it’s probably easiest just not to question it. 

Luna pulls out a seat, practically shoving Harry into it when he seems hesitant to sit on his own. She rounds the table to sit at his left, and Harry realizes that she’d sat him at the head of the table. Or perhaps the foot, as the seat on the other end of the long, long table seems to be much grander than the one he is currently occupying. In fact, there seems to be a faint aura around the chair, as if it knew its own magnificence… Harry eyes it warily, before jolting at a sudden cough.

Harry jumps, whipping around to look at its source, and blinks in shock when he realizes there is someone else at the table. Two someone elses, in fact. How he missed them in his earlier perusal, he has no idea.

One is a girl, her hair frizzy and wild and thick, her skin a warm brown, and her eyes dark and scrutinizing, as if she is trying to pry him apart and learn what makes him tick. The other is a blonde boy, his face pinched and pale, his feet propped up on the table and his body practically exuding arrogance. He eyes Harry with contempt, and Harry finds himself growing offended at the prolonged glare. _What could he have_ possibly _done to offend this boy? Was this just a thing around here?_

Harry shifts under their critical stares, half uneasy, half irritated, a hot flush creeping up his neck. Luna is no help; she seems entirely focused on her tea, to which she seems to be having a rather amiable conversation. Harry shakes his head, returning his attention to the mysterious newcomers ( _though,_ he supposes, _Luna is just as unfamiliar, even if she had been what brought him here_ ). “Um, can I help you?” he asks, his gaze flitting between them.

The girl seems to come out of a trance. “Oh! Sorry, that was rude,” the girl says, ducking her head in embarrassment. “You may call me the Dormouse,” she says, holding out a hand, and Harry shakes it tentatively, the name ringing in his head. _What kind of name is the_ Dormouse? _What, did it open and shut and let anyone through?_

Harry pushes the thought away and releases the girl’s hand, before turning to the boy. He makes no move to greet Harry, as if hoping to pretend that Harry simply isn’t there. “And you?” Harry asks, awkward.

The boy sighs, rolling his eyes, though Harry could’ve sworn they had widened slightly when they spotted the cloak resting on his hip. Still, he seems to hesitate a moment, as if unsure, before saying, “Knave of Hearts. Pleasure.”

_It certainly didn’t sound like one._

Harry sends a suspicious glance at the boy, before abandoning it to focus on the odd feeling settling in his stomach. It seems exceptionally odd that the people here seem so averse to give him a real name, especially when he’s used to giving his so freely. Luna certainly hadn’t, but she doesn’t really seem the secretive type, and anyway, she isn’t who he is really referring to. The Caterpillar and the Dormouse and the Knave of Hearts, though… They seem to find the prospect of names… almost _frightening_.

It fills him with a sense of foreboding that seems rather ridiculous when he considers that it is brought about by the idea of _names_ , of all things.

It leads to another, far more unsettling thought: _how many times had he given his name since he got here?_

He doesn’t know.

It kind of scares him.

“Tea time!” Luna exclaims, her conversation with the tea cup seemingly ending on a happy note. She turns, catching Harry’s gaze as he watches her with ill-disguised bewilderment. “You really should close your mouth, Harry. Nargles _will_ fly down your throat, and then where would we be?”

“Tea time indeed,” The ‘Knave of Hearts’ scoffs, but Harry ignores it and keeps staring at Luna; in fact, his gaze only intensifies. “How’d you know my name? You’re the second person to call me Harry without my telling you.”

“Oh, did I? Whoops,” she says, placing her teacup back on its saucer. Even without looking at them, Harry feels the girl dubbed the ‘Dormouse’ and the Knave of Hearts both stiffen at his sides, something like unease radiating from them in waves. Harry’s tempted to watch their faces, but is more interested in what Luna has to say.

“Tea time! It’s tea time around the clock here, did you know that? It’s rather funny, if you think about it, but we do love our tea,” the Dormouse cuts in, laughing nervously, her eyes flicking to the end of the dining table and back. Harry follows her gaze, but is quickly distracted by the Knave of Hearts chiming in. “Oh yes, tea time! Tea time now, tea time tomorrow, tea time all the time! Isn’t that right, Rabbit? Tea time is best time! Right? _Right,_ Rabbit?” His voice is reedy, his gaze imploring.

Harry narrows his eyes at them, some odd mixture of bewilderment and suspicion settling in his stomach, but is denied the chance to ask when Luna shifts. She ignores the other two, and for the first time, Harry feels the full weight of Luna’s attention, and though it isn’t _oppressive_ , exactly, it makes him feel entirely laid bare. 

Luna folds her hands primly in her lap, her voice light as she says, “I know your name, Harry, because you’re rather infamous around here. Flooding the entrance chamber? Myrtle’s always had a fondness for gossip.”

The Knave of Hearts seems to mutter something suspiciously close to, _that’s an understatement_ , but Harry is far more interested in the sigh of relief that the Dormouse releases. He looks at her curiously, but quickly returns his gaze to Luna when the other, darker girl looks at him sternly for watching her. Funnily enough, it reminds him of McGonagall.

Another pang of homesickness hits him. _I’m_ going _to get home,_ he thinks stubbornly. _I have to._

He takes out the pocket watch, then, tracing the engraving with gentle fingers under the table.

Harry returns his attention to Luna. “I only got here a few hours ago! Surely news doesn’t spread that fast?” he says, and immediately feels stupid. They have magic here. Who is he to say what it can and can’t do?

Surprisingly enough, it is the Dormouse who answers. “Wonderland communicates through mirrors. Surely you noticed the large ones in the entrance chamber? They were fashioned over 700 years ago, by Sir Lionel of the Dark – “

“Oh, please, save us the history lesson,” the Knave of Hearts cuts in, rolling his eyes, relaxed now. The girl shoots him an annoyed look. “Honestly, you should know by now that no one wants to hear your scholarly drivel; it’s _insufferable_.”

“Some people like learning!” She exclaims, crossing her arms defensively. “I wouldn’t expect someone like _you_ to know; _your_ head’s practically filled with sawdust, and you’ve access to all the tutors money can buy!”

Harry can tell this type of bickering is par for the course for these two. The blonde boy is just about to retort when Harry interrupts, “Hold on – quick question.”

They both turn to him in unison, and Harry might have thought it was funny under different circumstances. As it is, he has more important things to discuss. “When I got here, I...” He swallows, forcing the words out under the weight of their combined stairs. “I saw something that–that shouldn’t be possible. Many somethings, but that’s not the point. Can you–can you _prove_ to me that I’m not just imagining this, or something? I need to know. I _have_ to know.”

The boy huffs, but the girl just looks at him in surprise. “Of course,” the Knave of Hearts says, as if speaking to a child. “I thought Myrtle would’ve explained this to you. This is all very much _real_ . Wonderland is the magical half of the Muggle world. They used to be one world, but that’s neither here nor there. I have to wonder, though–what did you _think_ this was? A joke? Honestly, how much of an idiot _are_ you, I wonder?”

Harry’s heart drops, his whole world view turned on its head. He can’t deal with this, not here, not now, so he says–

“Ever heard of the Caterpillar?” Harry asks. The boy nods, arrogant as ever, but he still seems confused by the non sequitur. “Yes, of course. I’m not _ignorant_ .” _Like some people_ , remains unsaid.

Harry leans forward, bracing himself on the table with his hands, one still curled loosely around the watch. He smiles innocently, and the Knave of Hearts watches him suspiciously as he says, as tooth-rottingly sweet as he can, “Good, then you’ll understand why I think you and him would get along _quite_ well, with your matching, nasty personalities.”

Harry hears a giggle come from the direction of the Dormouse. He smirks as the Knave of Hearts balks, as if unused to being talked back to. His pale face flushes, in anger or embarrassment, Harry can’t tell. He privately hopes it’s a little bit of both.

“You can’t just – “

The Dormouse gasps before the Knave of Hearts can finish his sentence. She leans over, snatching up Harry’s hands. “Where did you get this?”

Harry looks at her in surprise. “I-I’ve always had it. Why?”

She looks at him, shock written all over her face as she watches him intently. “Nothing. I… I knew someone, once. They had one just like it. I thought… I thought it lost.”

Harry looks at her oddly, his eyes narrowed. “Oh.” His expression clears as he looks at her once more. “Do you–do you think you could introduce – “

Luna cuts him off. “Well that’s not any good, is it?”

All three teenagers turn to her. “What?”

“Can’t you hear it? The card guards. They’re coming.”

Both the Dormouse and the Knave of Hearts freeze, before springing to their feet almost immediately, as if called to attention by Luna’s words. They frantically race to make it appear as if they’d never been there, and Harry watches them, both confused and mildly concerned. He, too, rises to his feet, if slower, and turns to Luna, who has stood as well. “Luna, what are card guards?”

“Oh, you know those people that attacked you in the church? That’s them. We really should be leaving. It’s a pity, I really had wanted to enjoy another cup of tea… They’re a great source of conversation, you know.”

“Hurry! Mouse, the table, she’ll be so furious if she sees – “

The Dormouse raises a wooden stick, not all that unlike Luna’s, while saying something Harry can’t quite catch, and within moments, all of the plates and dishes are rolled up in the white tablecloth. They’re promptly vanished into thin air, leaving the table to look, for all intents and purposes, absolutely unused.

The girl turns to say something to Harry, but can’t do anything at all before the Knave of Hearts grabs her by the shoulder, jerking her back. “There’s no time!” He says, forcing the girl to his side. He turns to Harry and Luna, shouting, “Leave, before she sees you!” When Harry just stands there, the boy’s expression morphs from one of panic to that of anger, “Go, now! _LEAVE!”_

“Wait!” The Dormouse says, and before the Knave of Hearts can once again protest, she pulls a small pouch from her skirt, throwing it to Harry. He catches it, watching with slowly mounting nervousness as the Knave of Hearts turns on his heel and disappears with a faint _crack_ , the Dormouse pulled behind him without so much as a goodbye.

Harry stares, bewildered, at the place the two teenagers had just vacated before he feels a soft hand on his arm, big silver eyes watching him.

And then, he feels it.

The stomping of hundreds of feet, reverberating through the ground like an earthquake. His head shoots up, and he watches with horror as a sea of red appears over the edge of the hill, a figure dressed in both black and crimson riding atop them all in a throne, carried by four soldiers. A war cry tears through the air. 

“ _FORWARD!”_

And then, the army is _running._

Running at _them._

“Luna, we need to go,” Harry says, looking down at her frantically. He has no idea who these people are, but judging by the other two and the events at the graveyard, they’re nothing good. 

But Luna’s gaze is turned away from him, now, watching the slowly approaching soldiers with what can only be described as a blasé expression. “Luna?” Harry says, his voice rising. He shakes her, but she can’t seem to tear her eyes away.

Harry looks back and forth between Luna and the card guards frantically. They can’t be more than a few hundred yards away, and the warcry is so loud it seems to rattle the teeth in his skull. He turns Luna to face him, and it is then that he notices that she seems to be in another world entirely, her expression blissfully vacant. “LUNA?”

She looks at him, then, slowly, her eyes glazed.

Harry resists the urge to scream. The army is 200 yards away now… 175…

“You know,” she murmurs softly, “this could all end now. If you went to her.”

Harry stares at her, eyes wide, heart pounding. “Luna, are you _insane_ ? Did you _see_ how those other two responded?”

“You’re just as sane as I am,” she responds mildly, meeting his eyes, her gaze clear and intense. “It would hurt, but still… Save you so much pain.”

Harry gawks at her, before shaking his head. He really _can’t_ with this right now.

He grabs her roughly by the shoulders, shaking her as gently as he can while his heart rate is through the roof. “Look, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but we need to go. _Now_.”

She nods, absently, still with that infuriatingly unaffected expression. Harry turns his head, then, looking over his shoulder to see that he can make out the features of the soldier’s faces, now, the glinting of their squarish armor in the sunlight –

Harry’s breath stalls when he makes eye contact with the mysterious woman on the throne, and watches as pure hatred burns in her eyes, her nostrils flaring in fury. His eyes widen. He can feel the utter _loathing_ burning in her eyes, even from here.

“Oh, fuck this,” he says under his breath, and he does the only thing he _can_ do: he picks up Luna, swings her over his shoulder because she _certainly_ isn’t moving on her own, and runs for dear life, the bag and pocket watch clenched tightly in his hands as he disappears past the treeline, the throned woman’s screams reverberating in his ears.

*

Tom reclines in his chair lazily at the end of the long table, his eyes never leaving Harry’s retreating form. The Red army is swiftly approaching, but it doesn’t matter, really. They won’t be able to see him, anyway. His Disillusionment charm has always been perfect.

Tom rests his head on his hand, playing with the brim of his hat from where it rests in his lap. He tunes out the war cries as he replays the afternoon’s previous events in his head. Harry is even more beautiful than Tom remembers. His hair is shorter than Tom recalls, and his jaw more angular, his eyes more haunted–but he is still the Harry Tom knew. Still charming and witty. Still his.

Harry has retained his charming curiosity and ridiculous noble tendencies, but Tom can’t begrudge him those too much.

It works in his favor, after all.

He can still see the determination in Harry’s eyes as he saved the Lovegood girl, completely disregarding the fact that she was a complete stranger to him. She’d played her part well, and because of her, Harry is one step closer to the grand finale.

_Oh, how things are looking up._

Tom sighs, content as he rises from his seat at the table. The Red Army has just approached the treeline, and is skirting it warily. He knows their aversion to the forest well. After all, it was he who had instilled it in them. They know better than to trespass into his territory. 

The Red Queen’s angry screams are like music to his ears.

His plan is unfolding perfectly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s got a LOT of plot & detail in it, but I hope you guys still like it—also it’s late and I’m tired so if they’re any mistakes I apologize. Anyway, the horcruxes will be important to the story, but I want to clarify that some them aren't really horcruxes, per se—more like a means to an end. You’ll see what I mean later on ;)
> 
> Also, sorry this note is so long, but I may be without a laptop for a week or two—I’ll still try to have something up in the next week, but we’ll see what happens. See you guys in the next chapter! (I’m so excited for it you have NO idea)


	5. PART ONE: The Hatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's THAT chapter ;)

Harry’s heart beats furiously in his ears, Luna’s weight on his shoulder only serving to further his anxiety. How is he ever supposed to outrun an army when he’s carrying someone that is hardly smaller than him?

He glances back, and his feet falter when he realizes that the army doesn’t seem to be following him. Of course, he can’t be positive, but if they’ve decided he isn’t worth it…

Well, who is he to complain?

Luna nudges him in the back as he slows to a walk. “Would you put me down, please? You’re not very comfortable.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry.” He gently lowers her to the ground, stretching his shoulder. Though Luna is rather light, Harry isn’t used to carrying anything heavier than a large flower pot, and even then he didn’t have to do so very often. 

Luna lands lightly on her feet, looking as unruffled as ever, as if she’d not just been forcibly carted away from an army of angry, red-clad card guards. “I suppose you have questions,” she ventures, her eyes bright.

Harry huffs a laugh. “When do I not?” he scoffs.

She nods, smiling widely, as if he’d just said something very pleasing. “Yes. I am sorry about my little incident, earlier. Those things happen, sometimes… The future is so very fickle, you know?” she says, wistful. “Not easy, of course. Never easy.”

“The future? Are you–are you a seer?” Harry asks, feeling ridiculous even as he says it. He drops to the ground and sits, his legs criss-crossed. Luna copies the movement, though she seems to almost float to the ground, rather than drop clumsily.

She looks at him, her gaze far away. Harry wonders if she is ‘seeing’. “Oh, yes. But it’s not clear, you see. It’s only flashes. Impressions, really. They're... overwhelming, I think.”

Harry considers her words, idly pulling at the grass as he mulls them over in his head. As curious as he is, Harry’s not willing to ask. Time is something he'd really rather not meddle with. Shaking his head, he abandons his fidgeting to survey the pouch the Dormouse had thrown to him. “And what about this?” he asks, holding the pouch up to the light. It is rather plain, almost like worn leather, though it seems to have a shimmery quality to it. 

“It’s a mokeskin pouch! They’re very useful, though I’ve heard that ones made with the essence of moon dust tend to be prettier. No one can take things in and out of there except the owner, and they’re exceptionally roomy.”

Harry hums in interest, and watches in mild surprise as he is able to pull the pouch open with ease. “How come I can open it?” he asks.

"Maybe it likes you.”

He smiles at the answer, and before he can think better of it, drops the diary in there, and, thoughtful, decides to stow the cloak and pocket watch in there, too.

Luna watches his face, pensive, and Harry looks up at her, his stare just as thoughtful. “Luna… You told me that to get home, I had to find the Hatter… But I don’t know anything about him. Who is he? What is he like?”

“The Hatter?” Luna repeats, her voice holding a tinge of whimsy and maybe… nostalgia? “He’s very charming, and rather dapper–I do love his hats, they’re very tall. He’s very sneaky, too. He sees everything, did you know? He has eyes everywhere, so he’s very good at manipulating things to his advantage. Most people are scared of him. That’s why the Red army didn’t follow us; this is his territory. They’re terrified of him,” she says mildly.

Harry watches her, mulling her words over. He means to ask how one man can possibly have eyes everywhere, but what actually comes out is, “Then why does everyone want me to go see him?”

“Hm?” Luna says, her gaze far away. She turns to him, her face clearing. “Oh. Well, even if he’s rather sly, he’s still your best chance of going home. Did you know they call him the _Mad_ Hatter? Though, I suppose, we’re all a bit mad here.”

Harry nods along, his eyes bright with interest and a little bit of anxiety. _Mad, huh?_

“Is he watching us now?” He asks. Luna nods her head sagely, her eyes looking at something that Harry can’t see. 

Harry stiffens immediately, but before he can ask another question, Luna says, “Don’t worry. He likes you too much to do something that would deter you from coming to him.”

“Why? I have no idea who he is.” Harry shifts, stretching his legs out and leaning back on his hands. “Honestly, you’d think I’d been here before, what with how familiar some of you seem to be with me.”

Luna’s lips twitch up into a faint smile, as if privately amused by his statement. “Oh, he knows everything about you. He’s been waiting for you for quite some time, actually.”

“‘Quite some time’? But I only just got here.”

“Yes, but you arrived at the Dursleys not too long ago, didn’t you?” She plucks at a daisy that had been dancing merrily at her feet, before swiftly gathering another and braiding them together with a third to make a chain. 

“How did you know that? You always seem to know things about me.”

“Oh, did you think I just visited your world on the day you came down here? No, I move back and forth all the time. I’ve seen you before, you see.”

Harry swallows, the information sitting heavy in his stomach. “So you know… everything? About me?”  
  
She looks at him, then, shaking her head as she grins. “Oh, no, of course not. But I was there long enough to know when you arrived. And things never stay secret for long, here. I imagine that’s how the Hatter found out. He must’ve been listening. He does that, sometimes. Watches and listens.”

They lapse into silence, both willing to let the quiet linger as Harry digests this new information. 

After several moments, Harry whispers, “Why was he waiting for me?”

Luna pauses for a moment, her eyes never leaving that point in the middle-distance. “He thought you were worth waiting for.”

Harry nods slowly, the concise answer doing nothing to quell his rising apprehension.

*

Harry is careful to place his feet only where the ground glows, his balance steady as he traces the Rabbit’s footsteps. The tracks are small, but Harry supposes that should be expected from a girl as small as Luna. 

After their little respite in the woods, Luna had told him that she couldn’t go any further.

“Why not?” Harry had asked, aghast at the thought of continuing on without her. He’d hardly known her a moment, and all of a sudden, it felt as if separating from her was nigh impossible.

“This is the Hatter’s territory,” she said, smiling sympathetically. “He doesn’t want me here. The only reason I was able to get this far is because there’s a neutral stretch of land around the treeline. It’s a shame, really. There are lots of beautiful creatures hidden in there… I've heard the Crumple-Horned Snorkack likes the flowers around the yew trees...” she said, looking farther into the woods wistfully. 

“Luna, if you can’t go that far, what makes you think I can?” He said, tossing the mokeskin pouch over his head and around his neck, before tucking it into his shirt, his ratty waistcoat securing it.

She smiled up at him, her eyes bright. “He’s waiting for you, remember? I may not be able to come, but I can show you the way!” she said, rocking on the balls of her feet. 

She had drawn that stick again, waving it once, an unintelligible whisper falling from her lips. Glowing footsteps appeared suddenly, almost like stepping stones. “Follow them,” she said, stepping away and curtseying playfully. “They’ll lead you right to him.”

Harry'd been following her instructions for what must've been at least twenty minutes. The flowers unfurl as he passes, releasing little dancing lights that float up into the trees, almost like fireflies. It adds an air of whimsy that Harry helplessly adores.

He mourns his inability to sit and watch the scenery, but he knows the sooner he finds this mysterious madman, the sooner he'll be back home, with the people he loves.

Harry begrudgingly continues forward, his mind wandering, though his feet never falter.

_The Hatter..._

From what Luna had said, the Hatter seems to be able to watch any and all activity here in Wonderland–and would most likely be keeping an eye on Harry. The thought unsettles him, especially when he doesn’t know _how_ he’s doing it, but he keeps going anyway. Through Luna's words and all the things she left unsaid, Harry gathered that the Hatter is not someone to be taken lightly. It’s obvious he’s powerful, if the way everyone fears him is any indicator, and he is said to be dangerous, manipulative, and, above all, devastatingly charming, but Harry is stubborn. He won’t stop until he can get home, and if that means facing the Hatter, then so be it.

( _Even if the Dursleys weren’t much of a home at all_ – )

_Stop it!_ He tells himself sternly. _They’re all waiting for you._

The footsteps Harry had been following stretch out into a small clearing and come to an abrupt halt in front of a tall, twisting yew tree. Like dewdrops, hundreds of small gems hang from the leaves and embed themselves in the wood, each as clear and opulent as cut diamond. 

Though the foliage is thick and very little light can get through, the few shafts of sunlight allowed by the trees bounce off the precious stones, creating a dazzling light show unlike any Harry has ever seen before.

It is beautiful. _B_ _reathtaking_ , even. 

Harry reluctantly tears his eyes away to look at the actual wood of the tree. It reminds him starkly of the one guarding the rabbit hole in the Masons’ hedge maze, though far more opulent and intricately detailed. It's dark and pale, its branches gnarled and thick, its roots unruly and untamed where they lie above the ground.

As he peers closer, Harry realizes that there is something carved into its wide trunk. The lines are similar to the runes he’d seen on the doors in the entrance chamber before Myrtle had flooded it, though more curved, more languid, and in the center, the flowing lines meet in a spiral, where a slight indentation rests. It’s almost like a hollow in the tree, though certainly not deep enough.

Harry brushes his fingers against it. He knows there is a doorway in it somewhere–there has to be, since Luna’s footsteps stop here–but he also knows finding one is going to be an admirable feat. The Hatter is supposed to be unbelievably cunning, after all.

_Perhaps a key…?_

Just as Harry makes to pull away, he sees something flicker in the corner of his eye. He turns, and nearly jumps a foot in the air when he realizes it’s a girl. A girl, lounging in a tree. 

She has fiery red hair and sparkling hazel eyes, and a large, sly smile, her face just barely visible in the light of the setting sun. “Harry Potter,” she hums, her gaze taking him in. Most peculiarly, she has a pair of cat ears perched atop her head, and a tail swishing back and forth, as if unable to keep itself still. It reminds Harry of Luna’s little magic trick with the bunny ears, only hours earlier. 

Harry straightens his back, meeting her stare head-on. “That’s my name,” he replies.

_No one is immune to Myrtle’s gossip, it seems._

He watches her, cautious, as she sits up and leaps from her branch, and, as if by a trick of the light, appears gracefully fifty feet from where she should have landed. Harry blinks in ill-disguised shock.

This place can _not_ get any weirder.

(He is wrong.)

The girl stretches, her wide smile never wavering. “The Hatter has had a lot to say about you,” she says, eyes flicking up and down over him. Her voice is warm, but that doesn’t make Harry feel any better. Everyone here seems to be hiding something, even Luna, whether it be a name or something more sinister. It’s a bit disconcerting when he considers that, at the very least, the Dursleys were upfront about their intentions towards him, no matter how unpleasant they might have been.

“All good things, I hope,” Harry replies, after a pause. He notes the girl’s relaxed, open posture. She clearly thinks he is no threat to her. It’s stupid, he knows, but he can’t help but feel a little miffed at the idea. He’s not _helpless_!

“I suppose... But only if you consider obsession on the good side of things,” the girl responds, after a while, a short laugh escaping her lips. She walks a circle around him, and while the move doesn't make him feel _hunted_ , he is still careful to keep her within his sights.

Harry takes a breath. “And you are?” He asks. _As good a way to get answers as any_ , he supposes.

The girl stops circling, her back to him. She stays there, completely still, and Harry is just about to rephrase the question in fear that he offended her when her head turns, hair glinting in the ray of sunshine that falls perfectly across her head. The glowing strands cover her eyes, but Harry can see the melancholy twist to her lips. She traces a single, pale finger against her wrist, as if recalling someone else’s touch. “No one you’d know,” she says, almost to herself.

And then, as if nothing happened, she turns suddenly, her face bright, the sly look back in her eyes. “I’m the Cheshire Cat, the one and only.” She twirls, somehow grinning just the slightest bit wider than before. “But you, my dear friend, may call me Ginny.”

Harry frowns. _What happened to the name thing?_

“Alright, Ginny,” Harry says, after a moment, “Why has the Hatter sent you here?”

The girl laughs, the sound bright and warm, if a little teasing. “Sent me? He didn’t _send_ me. I’m as free as I can be. I go wherever I please.” There was a wry twist to her lips, as if she found something funny about the whole affair.

 _Awesome. Just_ great _._ “I’m glad one of us is having fun,” Harry grumbles, voice harsh. He was starting to get fed up with all this deflecting and non-answers.

Ginny doesn't seem to notice his quickly mounting agitation. “I go anywhere I want. It’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Going—running, perhaps?” Her smile seems to turn a touch sad, then. Almost reminiscent. “It’s not all that fun to be constantly running, though, is it? I mean, you certainly don’t look happy.”

All at once, all of the frustration and anxiety Harry's been forcing down rises to the surface, his hands shaking with the effort to keep himself contained. He fails miserably. 

“The only thing I’m running from is the fucking insanity that I’ve been forced into!” Harry explodes, taking a shuddering breath in an effort to calm himself. It doesn’t help. “Look, Cat–or Ginny, was it?–I’m just trying to get to the stupid Hatter’s house so I can get the hell back home! Can you help me, or is this another thing I’m gonna have to figure out on my own?”

The girl’s expression doesn’t change one bit during Harry’s tirade, though it does seem to have a cast of sympathy that wasn’t there before. “You’re never alone, Harry.”

“Of course not! The Hatter’s ‘always watching,’” Harry says, voice harsh. 

Harry almost expects it when Ginny blinks out of existence, but not her sudden appearance directly in front of him, hardly an inch between them. Harry jumps at the sudden proximity, the Cheshire Cat watching him intently. Her sympathetic expression hasn’t left, and she seems to almost want to physically comfort him, but refrains from doing so. Harry can’t decide if he’s thankful or not.

“You’re never alone, Harry,” she repeats, softer, this time, before continuing, “and besides, you’d be surprised how much you can remember when you put your mind to it. Though you seem the type that works better under duress, I think.”

She sends him a pointed look, but what she’s trying to hint at, Harry doesn’t know. He huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes. “‘Duress’? What are you gonna do, torture me?”

Ginny smiles, suddenly playful. “No, of course not.” She suddenly appears beside him, trailing a finger down his arm. Harry feels heat creep up the back of his neck at the flirtatious note in her voice. “But surely you’ll think of _something_. You’ve always been good at... riddles.” 

Harry struggles for an answer, flustered at the sudden change in behavior, when Ginny suddenly pauses. Like a flash, her finger hooks under the leather string around his neck, drawing out the mokeskin pouch. 

Ginny looks it over, face uncomfortably close to Harry’s neck as she leans in to examine the material. “My, is that _really_ a mokeskin pouch? Keep that safe, those are exceptionally rare.”

And she disappears again, reappearing in the tree she’d occupied when he’d arrive here. Harry feels almost dizzy from her sudden teleportations. 

Ginny stretches out on the branch, the gesture undeniably cat-like, before rolling onto her back, her head hanging off the limb to meet his gaze upside-down. Her red hair looks like a curtain of fire in the sun. “Well, my time’s up. Be careful, won’t you? It’d be a pity for anything to happen to that pretty face of yours.”

She cocks her head, then, as if listening for something that Harry can’t quite hear. Harry watches, mute, as she does a backflip onto the ground. Her back is to him, now, but she looks over her shoulder for a moment, considering. “The Hatter may help you, Harry, but heed Luna’s advice. There’s a reason they call him mad,” she turns on her heel, as if to pirouette into thin air, but stops mid-spin, thoughtful. “Oh, and maybe try finding the key to that tree. I think that’s everything, now. Caio!” And just like that, she winks at him mischievously, before popping out of existence and into thin air.

Harry stares, dumbstruck and beyond the breaking point at the now empty space above him. 

Let it never be said that Harry Potter doesn’t know infuriating circumstances. He does. Privet Drive can easily attest to that. 

But this? Being left here, alone, with cryptic words he has no hope of understanding and no help whatsoever?

This takes the fucking cake.

He doesn’t know what to do, so naturally, he does the only thing he can think of.

He screams at the top of his lungs. “WHAT THE _FUCK_ , WONDERLAND?”

Harry wants to _rip_ , _punch_ , _tear_ , but all he has is a thousand stupid trees and one especially infuritating yew, so he settles for wrenching his hands through his hair and _pulling_. The pain grounds him, the pent up frustration and anger flooding through his fingers.

After a moment, when his heart rate slows and he feels no longer on the knife edge of full-blown _murder_ , Harry unclenches his fingers, his scalp sore from the rough treatment. He’s still irritated, still so fucking _pissed off_ , but he only drops to the ground, his back against the mysterious yew tree, allowing himself a moment.

He looks around absently, crossing his arms. “What _fucking key?_ ” He snarls, glaring up at the branches above him, his skin still flushed in indignation. The precious stones still shine beautifully in the sunlight, indifferent to Harry’s minor temper tantrum.

Harry watches as they sway with the leaves in the wind, the sunlight dancing across them, leaping from one gem to the next. The more he looks, the calmer he feels, and the more he feels he can convince himself that this isn’t a totally shit situation. At the very least, he isn’t at the mercy of the Dursleys’.

 _But now I’m at the mercy of this freakish fucking world,_ something inside him whispers. _Really, who would have thought? Harry fucking Potter, freak extraordiaire, sent to fucking loonyville._ He laughs to himself. The Dursleys had always threatened to send him to the asylum. Talk about irony.

As Harry lets his anger stew and slowly dissipate, he reviews Ginny’s words in his head. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but something about the non sequitur between her little riddle comment and the mokeskin pouch really sticks out to him.

It had seemed almost… _deliberate_ , in a way. Artificial. Harry absently traces the leather string. He doesn’t even think that it had been visible above his collar, so the only way she would’ve known it was there... is if she’d already _known._

Harry takes out the pouch, rifling through it. It is much, much _larger_ on the inside than he’d initially thought–he could probably stick his whole arm in there, if he wanted to. He retrieves the diary, instead, and is startled to find that it seems to _hum_ in his hand. It seems almost... _happy_ to see him. He shakes his head, brushing it off as another bizarre happening of this blasted place, before putting the items back, feeling around. The cloak is just the same as it had been, smooth and silky, but the pocket watch –

– the pocket watch is practically _vibrating_ in excitement.

Harry takes it out, examining it, and notices that, once again, the hands have moved. Now, they point directly at _him_. Or, more specifically, the tree he is currently leaning against. 

Harry quickly puts the bag back around his neck before standing, feeling the watch begin to shake harder in his hand. Curious, he examines the tree further, and, following an impulse he could not have explained if asked, presses the back of the watch into the indent in the trunk. Nothing happens for a moment, and then the runes begin to shimmer before his eyes, like liquid gold running through the veins. Harry leans closer, mesmerized, and the trunk unravels, falling open, and he with it.

Harry’s sent tumbling down a small number of stairs and nearly off the platform before he just manages to regain his bearings and grapple desperately for some kind of handhold. His hand catches onto something old and rusted, and he clutches it desperately, his feet swinging over a deep, dark tunnel–a vertical drop.

Harry stares down into darkness, nearly petrified with fear, before he finally regains some fucking _sense_ and pulls himself back onto the staircase, trembling, his body aching from the violence of his fall. He gives himself a moment, gasping, as he struggles to calm his racing heart. “Oh. My. _God_ ,” he wheezes, pressing his hand to his chest. _How close had he just come to death?_

He throws himself against the wall, taking a deep breaths he desperately tries to regain his bearings. It is only when he feels he'll be able to get up without vomiting that he stands on shaky legs. He’s lucky his glasses hadn’t fallen, and even more surprising, that he hadn’t lost the pocket watch he’d been holding before he was sent sprawling. 

Sure that he has no major injuries (other than perhaps a minor heart attack), Harry observes the space around him, keeping his back to the wall so that he wouldn’t tip over into oblivion. 

He is in a stairwell, that much is obvious, and a thin, metal banister runs along the curving walls, following the spiral of the stairs. On the other side of the staircase is simply empty space, a straight drop, no fence to ensure that he won’t fall to his death. He’d already gotten disturbingly close to doing so, hadn’t he?

The thought sends a thrill of terror through Harry, but he squashes it down. The distance of the staircase is unclear, and so too is its destination. Harry assumes it leads to the Hatter’s lair, but for all he knows he's walking blindly into a trap. Making up his mind, Harry turns, preparing to find another way, but instead watches in horror as the door slams shut behind him. 

The stairwell goes black, thick as pitch. Harry groans. “Great,” he mutters, gripping tightly to the railing, “Just amazing.”

As if on cue, the pocket watch in Harry’s hand begins to glow, softly at first, then brighter still. It shines down the staircase, and, as if it has a mind of its own, seems to be tugging him further down the stairs, like a particularly strong magnet. The hands are pointing resolutely forward, and, knowing it is the only option he has, Harry follows. 

As he walks, careful not to make a wrong step lest he get himself killed, he can’t help but wonder– _how on earth does his pocket watch know the way, when even Harry himself doesn’t?_

*

Harry walks for what feels like forever, the staircase never ending, the darkness unceasing. His only guide is the beacon of the timepiece, and Harry finds that it is a familiar comfort, though the watch has certainly never done something like this before.

After what might’ve been minutes or hours of walking, Harry’s feet finally meet earth, and he breathes a sigh of relief. 

_What an elaborate prank it would have been_ , he muses, _to make me walk that staircase forever._

Disregarding the thought, Harry stops at the edge of the stairs, and, with no other choice, follows the clock to wherever it will lead. Harry hasn’t walked far before he sees a light, and, not moments later, the watch stops its slow pull, the hands spinning madly, its glow dissipating into the faint darkness.

Harry, realizing it isn’t going to be of any more help, puts the timepiece back into the mokeskin pouch before warily stalking further. The light isn’t just a light, but a doorway; it looks like the opening of a cave, with vines draped carefully over its entrance. Harry can’t hear anything but his own heavy breaths. 

Hoping beyond hope that the room is empty so that he may have some kind of advantage, no matter how brief, Harry steps forward and brushes the vines aside, catching his breath when a figure stands silhouetted in the dim light.

*

The man has broad shoulders, tapering down to slim waist and hips, and a deep, velvet tailcoat accentuates the length of the man’s body. Just as his name suggests, a top hat rests atop his head, shadowing what little Harry might've been able to see of his face. Harry absently notes that the man is rather tall–Harry doubts that he comes up to his chin, if that.

“Ah, hello. Come from above, I presume?” The man doesn’t turn; his voice is deep, quiet. The fact that Harry can’t see his face lends a certain air of mysteriousness to the scene that immediately puts Harry on edge.

“...Above, sure. Are you..?” Harry asks, cursing how meek he sounds. He can’t afford to sound scared, here, not with a man who would be perfectly willing to exploit his weakness. He warily creeps into the room, stopping a few feet from the door, careful to stay away from the walls.

“The Hatter, at your service,” the man says, proudly, finally spinning around and removing his hat, before taking a sweeping bow. He quickly rises, settling the hat back atop his head, and Harry blinks in shock. The Hatter is devastatingly handsome, with pale skin and aristocratic features, and cheekbones that could probably cut glass. His hair is tamed, save for a stray curl that settles loosely over one of his eyes. And _oh_ , his _eyes_. 

They are a deep, dark crimson, a combination of ethereal and predatory that Harry finds irresistibly striking. It unnerves Harry in ways he can't articulate. After all, he’d been warned the Hatter was charming, but he hadn’t thought he’d be quite so... well... _handsome_.

 _This may be harder than he thought_.

Harry resists the urge to fidget under the attractive man’s stare ( _and since when_ _did he think_ men _were_ attractive _?_ ), and instead settles for simply adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “…Oh. You’re the one they call… Well, mad.” Harry immediately winces at his own bluntness. _Surely he has better tact than_ that?

The man pauses, as if amused by the statement. “I can’t deny I do have my… tendencies. You must be Harry. I’ve heard quite the stories about _you_. Flooded our great entrance chamber, hm? Not a very good start,” he sing-songs, dragging a finger around the brim of his hat, as if ensuring it is settled on his head. The Hatter’s eyes never leaves Harry’s, and there’s something so _sensual_ about the motion that Harry’s throat runs dry.

Harry shakes himself out of it. “That was all Myrtle!” He responds, defensive, before lapsing into an uncomfortable silence. 

When no more words are forthcoming, the Hatter begins to circle him, slowly, predator sizing up prey. It is nothing at all like Ginny's roundabout walk. The man's smile is positively bloodthirsty. 

“My, my, a shy one, are you? And you were so brave, earlier. Saving our dear Rabbit? How terribly _noble_ of you.” The man’s voice is a purr. It sounds like sin.

Harry hates that he _likes_ it.

“Well, I–w–what can I say? I’ve always been the reckless type,” he stutters. _Damn him_.

“Indeed,” the Hatter murmurs, still doing his _blasted_ circling.

Harry fixes his eyes straight ahead as he feels the Hatter come to a stop at his back. “And what else are you hiding, child?” he asks from behind him, the both of them back to back. Harry’s eye twitches at the pet name. 

“Nothing. I don’t really have anything to hide,” he answers honestly. And he doesn’t. Any secrets he had at Privet Drive don’t really matter, here. 

“That mokeskin pouch of yours certainly begs to differ. So too does the church, if all that broken glass has anything to say about it. It'll be a pain to repair, I'm sure. Tell me about what happened there,” the Hatter says, his voice dropping until it is like the breeze, soft against Harry’s ear. Tempting.

Harry stiffens, alarm bells going off in his head. Luna’s voice rings in his ears at the sly tone. “ _He’s very charming… Very sneaky, too. He sees everything, did you know? ...Most people are scared of him. That’s why the Red army didn’t follow us… They’re terrified of him._ ”

“I’ll keep those things to myself, thanks. I… I haven't learnt your name. Are you just called the Hatter? Or are you another person that’s sensitive about that?”

The Hatter, who had apparently turned, places one hand on each of Harry’s shoulders and spins him to face him. He leans closer, seeming to search for something that Harry can’t put a name to, and also completely disregarding the concept of _personal space_.

“Names are a dangerous thing, child. Has no one told you?”

“Told me what?” Harry asks, suspicious. He hopes to high heaven he isn’t about to get a repeat of the Caterpillar’s whole spiel.

The Hatter tuts, and, in an odd gesture of familiarity, brushes Harry’s shoulders off and withdraws from his personal space. He turns away, and then faces Harry with a hookah now in hand. Harry resists the urge to glower. This really didn’t bode well for this being a repeat of the Caterpillar. _Were hookahs some kind of trend, here?_

“Names, child. True names. They hold power unlike any other. Once you learn someone’s real name, you have power over them. It’s like handing them all of your greatest weaknesses. Think of it as the ultimate sign of trust, of intimacy.” The Hatter watches him intently, and Harry refuses to back down under his heavy stare.

"Is that why so many people have such an irrational fear of them? ...Is that why you won't tell me yours?”

The Hatter chuckles, a deep, all-encompassing sound. “I wouldn't say irrational, exactly. And while I certainly wouldn’t mind getting _intimate_ with you, my name is a weakness I won’t allow. My title is the Hatter. My name is something you will have to earn with time.”

“But,” Harry begins, itching to step away from the thick smoke, heavy and cloying, “isn’t that rather inconvenient? I mean, surely you’d have to tell _someone_ … And wouldn’t your parents already know? They name us, after all. And–And is it dangerous? That so many people know mine, already?”

“So many questions,” the man hums, releasing a ring of smoke from his mouth, its scent heady and dizzying. Harry follows it with narrowed eyes. “Well, I suppose I should start with the first. Once one learns the importance of names, most prefer to come up with a title, of sorts. Hence, I am The Hatter.” He tips his hat, as if to prove his point. “And names don’t do anything unless they’re _given_. You did not give your name to anyone other than Myrtle, and the dead hold no sway over the affairs of the living. Besides, learning only part of a name does very little. The full name holds the greatest power. Think of it like showing someone a picture of your soul, because that’s essentially what it is. Your name is a reflection of all that you are.”

Harry nods slowly, digesting the new information. “How do you know all of this?”

“Time. You learn things, after a while. I had ten years to master the ways of this world.”

The man straightens, then, and, as if brushing away the previous topic, waves a hand, gesturing towards a door that Harry hadn’t noticed upon coming in. “This way, child. It’s late, and your journey has been long.”

*

 _God,_ he’s gorgeous.

All the years Tom had spent, convincing himself he didn’t need Harry; forcing himself to try and forget his touch, his taste; telling himself that the boy was only a weakness, a burden, the only possible source of his downfall–it all crumbles in the face of Harry. How long had it been? How long had it been, since Tom could feel the heat of his skin against his back?

Tom steadily leads Harry up to the ground floor, deeper into the manor. Tom pretends that it is _his_ home, _his_ design, but he can still see the dredges of Harry's influence creeping in the corners, in the arrangement of the furniture, in the careful alignment of the floorboards. 

Tom had been waiting in the cave for little less than an hour, only moments before. Only when he felt the wards around the yew tree open did he finally stand, making his way over to one of the side tables. He picked up the hookah (a gift from Severus) before holding it to his lips, revelling in the sweet-smelling smoke. He felt himself relax. 

_Patience._

And then, a flicker of magic. Inquisitive, anxious, and something surprisingly close to _longing._

What was it that Dumbledore had said? Ah, yes. _His magic remembers what the mind cannot._

Tom had carefully set the hookah back into its place, straightening his hat as he took a step back. He heard the sweep of vines, and, turned away, he grinned, a hint of something dark lurking around the corners. _Finally._

Now, as he leads Harry through the long, weaving halls, he can’t help but think that he’d been a fool, to ever think he could forget a boy so unique and mesmerizing as Harry. He wants to pin him to the wall, ruin that perfect innocence, relearn every angle, every curve, wants to draw out those sweet moans and quiet cries he only lets himself remember on the loneliest of nights –

 _Patience_. It is his mantra.

Tom glances back, smothering a smug smile as Harry takes in the house with wonder. He recognizes the thoughtful furrow of his brow, the tensed hands, and knows that he’s thinking over their earlier conversation, even as he marvels at the grandeur of the halls.

Tom turns, coming to a stop at one of the doors, and he feels how Harry nearly crashes into his back, so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t register the sudden halt. Something in his chest pulses, unbearably fond.

“Through here,” he says, turning to face Harry once more. He holds out a hand, like a gentleman would a lady, and relishes in the irritation on Harry’s face at the gesture. He'd never liked being treated as some delicate maiden.

Harry eyes the extended appendage with derision before roughly brushing it aside as he passes him, making to reach for the doorknob himself. Tom stops him with one gloved, spidery hand. 

“Ah ah ah,” he hums, keeping his hand firmly around the doorknob, Harry’s own hand faltering in its path. “I’ll be having none of that.”

“None of what?” Harry snaps, his hand dropping from where it had been poised to open the door.

“Disrespect, child,” Tom says, leaning forward. He stares, gaze intense, far more serious than he had been just moments ago in the flowery cave. There are rules in this house, and Tom will be _obeyed_.

Harry returns his stare, unflinching as ever, though Tom thinks he can detect just the slightest hint of tension in his shoulders. 

Tom lowers his voice, now, emphasizing the importance of his next words. “You have wandered into this world, and I am pleased to receive you, but do not be fooled by my hospitality. You will _behave_.”

Harry flushes in anger, his hands clenched fists at his sides. “You wish me to be a _dog_ to you?”

And Tom smirks, lazy and slow. Even with so much missing between them, it seems riling each other up will always be something he can count on. “Child, I already _own_ you. You are in my domain; you belong to _me_.” Tom forces the possessiveness out his voice at the declaration, continuing on, “Didn’t darling Luna tell you? The Red army is afraid of me, of my _territory_. Make no mistake, for I shall state it clearly: once you stepped foot on my soil, you became my possession. If I ask you to be a dog, child, you will _heel_. It is the law of this world. Who owns the land, owns _everything_.”

He leans down, then, bringing himself eye-level with the other boy. “Am I understood?”

Tom can see Harry’s inner fight between his urge to defy him and his need for help in the burning of his eyes. His eyes blaze, his jaw clenching, and Tom resists the urge to trace the muscle that jumps in the boy's cheek as he forces down his anger.

“Yes,” Harry mutters, his teeth grit. Tom smiles, then, a small, sharp thing, before standing straight and holding his hand out once more. “Shall we?”

Harry very nearly shakes with anger, but nevertheless, he hesitantly places his hand in Tom’s, the heat creeping through the cotton material. Satisfied, Tom turns to open the door, but pauses when Harry holds fast, his grip crushing. Tom turns back around, his brows furrowed in irritation, his mouth open to comment, before Harry beats him to it.

“Wait a moment. I want my say.”

“Your _say_?” Tom says, sarcasm dripping from his mouth. He cocks his head. He wishes the matter to be over and done with, but he hates to admit that the statement intrigues him. _Just like everything else about Harry_ , an insidious little voice in his head whispers.

“Yes,” Harry says, his grip loosening a fraction. Tom resists the urge to flex his fingers; Harry’s grip was _strong._ Tom isn’t ashamed to admit that the thought sparks just the tiniest bit of interest in his groin. 

Harry continues on, oblivious to Tom’s… _interesting_ mental images. “If I’m… If I’m to be your possession, I want some say in the matter. After all, I’m not –” he seems to falter for a moment, and isn’t _that_ interesting, “– not from your world. I don’t work under your rules.”

Tom could’ve groaned at the thought. Harry, his _possession_. _His_. He wants to own Harry in his entirety, wants to carve a hole into him that only he can fill, a thirst only _he_ can sate –

But that is neither here nor there. 

Tom falls silent, outwardly thoughtful. Inwardly, though, he feels as if he could laugh. _Oh, if only he knew._

Harry waits as he pretends to think it over, and Tom’s almost tempted to make him squirm. After a few more beats of pensive silence, though, he returns his focus to Harry, putting him out of his misery. “I suppose I could be lenient. Though you don’t work entirely by our law, now that you are here, you must have limitations. Come. We’ll talk more, after you rest.”

The lines of the law are blurred for them, even more so than they’ve ever been, but Harry doesn’t need to know that.

Harry looks as if he is about to argue, but seems to think better of it, only nodding curtly in response. His hand is still resting in Tom’s, the heat of him warming Tom to his bones, and he has to physically restrain himself from pulling the boy flush. Tom smothers his amusement, turning the doorknob and gently ushering Harry forward with his clasped hand.

Harry barely gets a foot over the doorway before he collapses, the sleeping spell interlaced with the wards working magnificently. Tom catches him, effortlessly, sweeping him into a bridal hold. He tuts, noticing how light he is. _Had he never had a full meal before?_ He would have to ask Longbottom, or perhaps Brown.

 _Anyone but Diggory_.

Tom disregards the thought with a frown before hoisting the boy up, a comfortable weight in his arms. His body fits perfectly against his, and Tom can feel the heat of his skin, the subtle muscle and fine curvature of his bones as he carries him towards the bed, where the boy will be able to abandon his worries to a world of dreams and darkness, if only for a little while.

 _Not that the boy isn’t already there_.

*

Harry wakes, slowly, his limbs heavy and his eyes drowsy with sleep. He mumbles, quiet and incoherent, turning his head away from the sunlight streaming through his bedroom window, the bars doing little to impede it. _Maybe he could put an old sheet over them._

He meets something warm and solid; soft, yet firm beneath his cheek. His eyelids flutter, but he makes no attempt to move, only cuddling further into the pillow beneath him. _It’s strange,_ he thinks. _His bed is not nearly so luxurious._

His eyes fly open when he hears someone chuckling from above his head.

Harry bolts upright, throwing off the covers (and when had they gotten there?) and turning his head, only to be met by the blurry sight of the Hatter lounging against the headboard of an ornate bed, his back against several white, fluffy pillows. The proximity alone alarms Harry, but it is nothing compared to the utter _embarrassment_ he feels when he realizes that the ‘pillow’ he’d been nuzzling into was actually the Hatter’s thigh, clothed in material so soft it feels like clouds. 

Harry scrambles back immediately, his face on fire, his eyes wide. Belatedly, his hand flys to his neck, and he lets out a breath of relief when he feels the mokeskin pouch against his skin. He takes a moment to calm himself before croaking out, “Can I have my glasses, please?”

Within moments they’re being pressed into his hand, and he slides them onto his nose, his vision clearing immediately. 

The Hatter’s eyes follow the movement, amused. The man has discarded his ridiculous top hat and waistcoat, and Harry loathes how much softer (and utterly _appealing_ ) it makes him look. “You know,” he begins, his tone conversational, “I’m usually never so quick to get someone into bed, but I must admit… You look positively _precious_ in your sleep.”

Harry gapes at him, utterly scandalized, an uncomfortable heat creeping up the back of his neck. “What the – you – “ he sputters, before shrieking, “Well _that’s_ not creepy at all! Trust me, I could do _so_ much better.”

“ _Really_?” the Hatter asks, his voice low and smooth. He watches Harry with interest, and he sounds so sarcastic Harry wants to slap him, but there’s something else in the man’s voice that stops him. Something darker.

“Like who?” the Hatter says, utterly assured of his own attractiveness. Harry rolls his eyes. “Surely not Mr. Diggory. He’s much too… ordinary.”

Harry chokes, staring at the Hatter in shock. His mind immediately flies to the night he was broken out of the Dursleys. There's absolutely _no way_ the Hatter knows about that. “What? _No_! Where the hell did you get that idea?”

“Just a thought.” The Hatter gives him a very, _very_ blatant once over, and Harry can’t quite believe what’s happening. _This – this_ man –

(Harry doesn’t even think to question how the Hatter knows who Cedric is.)

Harry gapes uselessly, and the Hatter leans forward, two fingers coming up under Harry’s chin, clicking his jaw shut. This close, Harry can feel the man’s breath on his face, can see the way his eyes rake intently over his features. His fingers move, barely, lightly rubbing back and forth against the line of Harry's jaw. Harry’s mouth goes dry.

“Is something not to your tastes?” the Hatter asks quietly into the space between them.

Harry can absolutely _not_ handle this right now. 

Rather than suffer the further shame of meeting the Hatter’s very intense, very _knowing_ gaze, Harry takes the man’s wrist into a firm grip, pulling his hand from his face as he turns, deciding he’d rather look about the room. It isn’t dark, as Harry would’ve expected of a man like him, but rather has a light, airy quality to it, further matched by the delicately detailed furniture and the gauzy curtains hanging from the open windows. 

Harry stands, hoping to further explore his new surroundings (and steadfastly ignore the source of the burning in his face), but finds himself pausing, mid-stand, when he feels a delicate, feather-light material brush against his thighs. He looks down, and he feels his face positively _light on fire_ when he realizes he is wearing a _nightgown_ , of all things. 

Harry yanks it down to his knees, whipping around to face the Hatter as a sudden thought slams into him. _Did this motherfucker actually_ dress _him? What kind of creep_ is _he?_

“Did you know,” he begins, his eyes narrowing dangerously, his voice deadly quiet, “that it’s considered assault to undress and touch someone when they are not conscious to consent? Let alone another _man_?”

The Hatter, who had been leisurely sipping his tea up until that point, jerks. Harry smirks, proud at the momentary win. He looks at Harry, positively _horrified_. “I did no such thing!”

Harry glowers at him, using one hand to thrust forward the hem of the nightgown. “Oh really? My _change of clothes_ begs to differ!”

The Hatter scoffs. “It’s magic, you _idiot_. I’ll have you know I’m very honorable when it comes to my bed partners.” He shoots Harry a sharp look, giving him another once over. He smirks, then, meeting Harry’s eyes. “When I’m actually _in_ bed, however…”

“Do you ever _shut up?_ ” Harry hisses. The Hatter simply smiles, beatific, and Harry glares, his damned blush never leaving. 

It hits him, then. What is he _doing_? This man–this man isn't someone to trust. Isn't someone Harry should be _bantering_ with, of all things. And the flirtatious edge to his voice–it's _depraved_. This _shouldn't_ be happening. It _couldn't_ happen.

In the silence the Hatter leans over the side of the bed, taking a teacup from a tray on the bedside table. “Tea?” He asks, meeting Harry’s gaze.

Harry refuses to answer, and the Hatter seems to take that as a yes, for he gently places the cup in Harry’s hands, careful not to spill a drop of it. “It’s not poisoned, I promise you. Drink it, child. If you wish to have your silly little say, you must at least try it.”

“That’s exactly what someone who had poisoned it would say,” Harry replies petulantly before tearing his eyes away from the Hatter. He dubiously eyes the cup and the amber liquid inside of it. It seems normal enough, but that doesn’t say much in a place like this. He takes a hesitant sip, and resists the urge to screw up his face at the odd taste.

The Hatter huffs a laugh. “Come now, it’s not that bad. It’s gurdyroot.”

Harry can’t place it, but the name, and, now that he thinks about it, the _flavor_ of the tea seems to strike a chord with him. It stirs something like nostalgia within him, like a song half remembered. He looks down into the tea, watching the contents swirl, and furrows his brow. He feels as if there’s an answer there, but he knows that, logically, there can’t be. It’s like trying to catch smoke.

Shaking himself out of it, Harry quickly looks up, just in time to catch the oddly hopeful expression that occupies the Hatter’s face. The expression is quickly replaced with one of bland indifference, but Harry’s confident it’d been there.

“It’s still bad,” Harry finally says, after several moments of tense silence. The Hatter simply accepts his answer with a nod and takes the tea from him, placing it back on the tray. He then sits up straight, folding his hands primly in his lap. Harry hates how, despite the fact that the man is sitting on a bed, comfortable as can be, he still looks rather regal.

“Now, what were you concerned about?”

“First off, stop calling me child. It’s belittling,” Harry says, mimicking the Hatter’s seated position, though it's probably far less graceful than the other man’s, he’s sure.

The Hatter smiles tauntingly. “What would you prefer, _child_? I could call you darling, if you like. Or perhaps you’d prefer sweetheart? ...Maybe even pet? I must confess, I’m quite fond of darling. It just... _rolls off the tongue_ , no?” 

Harry shakes his head vehemently, his jaw clenching in irritation. This man was _impossible_. “No! Those are even worse.”

“Well, then,” the Hatter says, settling against the headboard, “I suppose I’ll have to call you whatever I wish, _love_.”

Harry’s eye twitches. “Why don’t you just call me by my _name_? Everyone else does.”

“Ah, but I’m not everyone else, dearest. I know your name, but I won’t use it until you give it to me.” He leans forward, eyes focused intently on Harry, and Harry feels trapped in his all-encompassing gaze. “Until you give _yourself_ to me.”

“Fat chance of that,” he hisses, venomous. He takes a deep breath through his nose, steadying himself. “We’re getting off track.”

“Indeed.” The Hatter returns to his position against the headboard, once again adopting an air of indifference.

Harry leaps at the chance. “How do I get home?”

The Hatter straightens abruptly, far more serious than he was moments ago. “Get home?”

“Uh, _yes_? That’s why I came here in the first place.”

“But why would you ever want to leave Wonderland? We have magic.” The Hatter says it like it’s idiocy to consider anything else.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Oh, _I don’t know_. Maybe because all the people I’ve ever cared about _aren’t here_?”

The Hatter’s expression doesn’t change, but the red of his eyes darkens considerably. Still, he thinks over it for a moment before responding, “You’re going to need access to a portal.”

“Okay, and how do I do that?” Harry leans forward, listening intently, his attention rapt. He’ll take any answers he can get, even if they're from someone as absolutely _insufferable_ as the man before him.

The Hatter drums his fingers against his thigh, thoughtful. “There’s your first problem. The only ones who have access to the portals are the kingdom rulers. You know about the kingdoms, don’t you?”

Harry blinks. He thinks back to the graveyard, and the plaques he’d seen in the church, as well as the three divisions. “...Do there happen to be three of them?”

The Hatter nods. “Technically only two now, since the Dark Kingdom was destroyed several years ago, but that’s neither here nor there. Unfortunately, the Dark portal is destroyed, so you won’t be getting through there. The White portal is locked by the White King, and let’s just say that he isn’t the… sanest, of fellows.” The Hatter’s lips twitch, as if holding back some cruel smile. “His portal won't be able to be opened for quite some time.” He pauses, then, giving Harry a considering look. “You’ve already met the Red army, haven’t you?”

“Um–yes. They attacked me at the graveyard, I think. And they chased off me and Luna when we were having tea, not far from here.”

“Good, so you understand you’re not likely to get through there. You'd have to go through an entire army, and I don't envy your chances on that one.”

Harry looks at him beseechingly. “But there’s gotta be some way to get back to my world, doesn’t there? There can’t–there can’t just be no _options_!”

The Hatter rubs his chin thoughtfully, uncaring in the face of Harry’s rising distress. “Well…” he begins, as if hesitant to continue. Harry looks at him, eager. He knew there must be something!

The man watches him, before continuing, his voice reluctant as he says, “You _could_ get through the Red, if you wanted. The queen’s rather bloodthirsty, you see, but,” and he leans in, as if telling some great secret, “she’s not the real heir. If you could find _them_ , get their help…”

“I could get home!” Harry finishes, nodding determinedly. “So who’s the heir?”

The Hatter looks at him, his gaze heavy. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

And Harry feels his optimism plummet.

_No..._

But the plaque at the graveyard…

_Lily Potter, Queen Consort of the Red Kingdom…_

_James Potter, King of the Red Kingdom…_

_Harry Potter,_ Heir _of the_ Red Kingdom _..._

“No,” Harry says, laughing in disbelief. He quickly sobers when he realizes that the Hatter isn’t joining him. His heart drops. “No. No, I can’t be! I only just got here!”

“Tell me, Harry,” the Hatter says, voice heavy with meaning, “Do you remember your parents?”

Harry looks at him, dread weighing heavy in the pit of his stomach. “No, but I grew up in an orphanage in my world, so how could I go from one to the other? As a _baby_ , no less? That's _insane!_ ”

“Just about as insane as you going from there to here, hm? And yet here you are.” The man leans back, point made. “If you could take the throne, take the kingdom… You’d get the portal. You’d get _home_.” His lips curl with disdain at the word.

“But that’s ridiculous! I can’t be a king! I’m hardly nineteen, for god’s sake!” he says, tone just barely on the knife edge of pleading. He takes a deep breath, fighting for control, even as he can feel the Hatter’s words settling like stone in his head. His voice is small when he says, “There _has_ to be another way.”

The Hatter watches him, sympathy in his gaze, though Harry has the distinct feeling that it is fake, even if he knows that logically, he can't prove it. Maybe it’s the fact that it seems out of place for his character, though he’d hardly known the man a day, maybe it’s the fact that it seems just a little too _practiced_ , but there is something off about it. There is something deeper, there. 

At that moment, a clock chimes, startling Harry so badly he practically leaps off of the bed. The Hatter sighs, standing. “I’ll leave you to think about it. Feel free to explore while I’m gone.”

Harry, glad for the conversation change, nods. “So I can go anywhere I want?”

“Is that what I said?” the man asks, tone sharp, losing any sympathy (false or otherwise) it had held just moments earlier. He picks up what must be his tailcoat from where it was folded over a nearby chair and shrugs it onto his shoulders. “Don’t go near my quarters; they’re off limits.”

Harry watches him skeptically. “All right. I want to leave the manor whenever I please. Can that be arranged?”

The Hatter shoots him a shrewd look. Harry holds up his hands, defensive. “What? You said I had to follow _your_ rules. I’m only asking!” _So I can break them later,_ he doesn't say.

The Hatter taps his bottom lip, thinking it over as his gaze scans the room, as if searching for an answer there. After several moments, he returns his gaze to Harry. “Fine. But,” he says, holding up a finger when Harry prepares to continue, “I wish to know where you are going at all times, and for how long you will be gone.”

“What are you, my mother?” Harry grumbles under his breath, before addressing the Hatter. “Yes, okay. I can live with that.” He takes a breath. “I want to be able to bring people back here.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What?” Harry exclaims, aggravated. “I’m only asking for free will! They might help me get home!”

“No, you’re asking for free _reign_. Sweetheart, you cannot just simply waltz about my home, exposing it to anyone you see fit. Nor can you simply disregard my rules as you wish.” The Hatter looks at his nails. The casual dismissal makes Harry’s skin bristle.

“You can’t just–"

“Can’t I?” The Hatter looks up, his gaze piercing. Harry feels pinned, like a butterfly to a cork board. “I believe we’ve had this conversation already, _child_. This is my domain. So long as you reside within it, you are limited to my rules. I will, however, make... allowances.”

The Hatter stalks forward, inches from Harry's face, and Harry scarcely breathes. He forces himself not to lean away, no matter how much he wants to. The Hatter's eyes rove over his face. “You may move about the house freely, so long as you stay away from my rooms. You may also entertain yourself as you wish and do what you must to get home, but if you put _my_ life in danger, you won’t get to keep _yours_ much longer. If you were to bring home _guests_ , you’d be exposing me to more threats than I, frankly, want to deal with. Are we clear?”

Harry pauses before nodding, mute. _Okay. A decent start. He can work with that._

“I do, however, stipulate that you must always be accompanied by one of my approved followers. We don't want any _misbehavior_ , do we?”

Harry should have known it was too good to be true. “That’s not fair at all! How am I supposed to get anything done if I have someone tailing me all the time?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” The Hatter turns to the door then. “I’m afraid I really must be going now, darling. I have matters to attend to elsewhere.”

“W-When will you be back?”

“Oh, miss me already?” The man taunts, his hand on the doorknob. “Perhaps sundown. Do behave yourself, won’t you?” He pulls open the door, and Harry knows this is his last chance to get one more jab in.

“Wait!” Harry calls, racing around the bed. He stops a few feet away from the Hatter, and the man turns, so that Harry may look him squarely in the face. Harry knows the request he has in mind is absurdly petty, but he can’t resist. “One more thing,” Harry says.

The man looks at him, sounding distinctly exasperated when he says, “Yes, child?”

“Don’t touch me.”

The temperature drops, and it is as if the whole room freezes. Harry doesn't breathe. 

“I _beg_ your pardon?”

“Don’t touch me,” Harry repeats, his voice firmer this time. “I’ll follow your rules and I’ll play your game, but I don’t want you to touch me. I’m not yours to touch, _sweetheart. Are we clear?_ ” he says, mockingly, throwing the Hatter’s words right back in his face.

The man’s face seems to go completely blank, but even so, his eyes grow darker. For a moment Harry thinks it’s in anger, but no, that isn’t right.

It’s _hunger_.

Harry has to resist the urge to shiver. In disgust, of course.

The Hatter watches him a moment more. He smiles, then, cold and cruel and with a distinct hint of _danger_ that makes the hair rise on the back of Harry’s neck. His voice is like the heaviest kind of thunder; quiet, but unbearably _present_ in its intensity. “Not until you _beg_ for it.” And before Harry can even open his mouth to reply, the man sweeps out of the room, leaving Harry alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter for a long wait ;)
> 
> This is the chapter that started it all! I wrote the dialogue of Harry/The Hatter (Tom) meeting a long, long time ago, and it soon turned into this monster. This chapter's actually been edited about three times, because I want it to be as good as I can get it–I really want to make Tom feel like not just a character, but like an actual person in this story. I hope I did their first meeting justice <3
> 
> Also, poor Ginny–she's trying so hard but Harry's just super fucking dense. Oh well, we love him, stupidity and all.


	6. PART ONE: The Manor

Tom shuts the door softly behind him, taking long, confident strides down the hall of his home. He tries to cover it up with his sure footing, his indifferent air, hating his weakness, but he can’t hide away from it–his hands are trembling.

The last time that’d happened, he’d been seventeen, Harry on the floor, his hands shaking as he frantically sought to dry Harry’s tears, to dry his own –

 _Enough of that_ , he tells himself sternly.

He can’t figure out if it’s anger, or want, or perhaps some sordid, sorrowful mixture of both that makes him react so strongly to Harry’s presence. To his sheer _audacity_.

_God, he should’ve known Harry would be more perceptive than he had thought. Had a decade alone really made him forget so easily?_

Tom is a meticulous planner. After so long in the orphanage, when food was uncertain and compassion hard to come by, he’d learned that the only true way to survive was control. When one owned the chess board, he too gained the players, and all of their resources.

It was one of the few virtues of being separated from Harry for as long as he had. He’d become powerful, in his absence. He’d become the puppetmaster.

Speaking of puppets…

Tom stops in front of the door to the drawing room. “Weasley,” he says (he rarely needs to yell–his dogs are well trained), and the boy appears, as if he’d always been there. 

“Yes, my lord?” Tom enjoys the slight loathing with which he says the words. He’s never been fond of Tom, and it was only by virtue of Harry’s (once) affection for him that Tom kept him so close, as his and Harry’s personal servant. Harry would never call him one, for he had loved the boy like a brother, but Tom had no such qualms when speaking to a lesser being such as Ron Weasley.

“You will be sticking closely to Harry from this moment forward; you can consider it generosity for your recent bout of good behavior. Report any incidents back to me, understand? And make sure Harry eats something. If he asks, tell him I’m out on business. I trust you’ll behave yourself?”

Tom considers it rather nice of himself to give the Weasley the freedom to reintroduce himself to Harry as he wishes, but his kindness apparently goes unnoticed. Still, he notes with some delight how the boy looks a hair's breadth away from lunging for Tom’s throat, but just barely restrains himself. The tips of his ears burn red. Tom watches him with an amused air as the boy eventually chokes out an, “Of course, my lord. Will that be all?”

Tom taps a finger against his chin, thoughtful, before a devilish smirk slides onto his face. Weasley regards him with suspicious eyes. “My lord?”

“You are not permitted to tell him how to leave, but don’t stop him. I want to see how frustrated he’ll get.”

Weasley lets out a harsh breath, as if reigning in his (truly unbecoming) temper, before nodding curtly. _Ah, the beauty of an Unbreakable Vow._ “Yes, my lord.” He makes to stalk angrily from the hall, but not before Tom manages to make one last request. “Oh, and Weasley?”

The boy is fuming, but stops nonetheless. “Yes?”

Tom tsks. “So ill-mannered. But, I’ll excuse it this once; I have more important matters to attend to. Do try to be subtle, won’t you? No warning away or some such foolishness. He is my guest. Make him as content as can be.”

Tom watches with glee as some of the light in Weasley’s eyes dies away. Tom shakes his head, feigning disappointment. “Did you really expect me to leave you and he alone without some sort of precautions? It wouldn’t do for you to scare him away so easily. Run along, now. I’ll be back by dark.”

Weasley doesn’t even bother to respond. He just turns his head and keeps walking, disappearing through the doorway. A pity. Tom would love a reason to teach him his place.

Tom lets the smug smile slip from his face. His hands aren’t shaking any longer, a blessing he is thankful for–he hadn’t been worried that Weasley would notice, he was much too dull for that, in Tom’s opinion–but his frustration has yet to lessen. Now, it sits in a tight ball at the bottom of his stomach, begging for him to do something to soothe its worries.

He doesn’t have time for this.

Tom snaps his fingers, an absent motion, and with a twist of his wrist a top hat is held tightly in his grip, the fabric a deep, dark green, complementing his velvet tailcoat and black slacks. He smiles fondly at the hat. Harry’d often thought his need to look presentable at all times such a trivial thing, even when it proved beneficial over and over again. 

Tom lets the thought go, nostalgia thick in his lungs as he settles the hat atop his head, making his way towards the small study that is tucked into the corner of the mansion. It’s relatively easy to find if one knows where to look, but he keeps it well warded. As he steps inside, he breathes in the smell of old parchment and ink.

There are a few candles placed strategically about the room, highlighting the large mahogany desk that separates his large, plush chair from another, smaller one, which is far less opulent. 

Tom wishes desperately Harry would fill it. Would fulfill all that he and Tom had dreamed of. Would fill Tom’s heart, curl up in his ribs, until he was caged, never to be lost again.

The room isn’t empty. Tom doesn’t bother to fake surprise.

“Luna.”

She doesn’t turn, just continues to admire the large mirror taking up much of the opposite wall. She traces a finger over the frame, and Tom resists the urge to drag her away from her reflection. The touch is horrifyingly intimate, her finger tracing the jagged edges of his magic as it swirls over the glass.

“You’ve got wrackspurts about your head again, Tom. You really ought to fix that.” Tom twitches at the casual use of his first name. Luna’s always been like that: no care for the magical laws of Wonderland. It makes a frustrating sort of sense that Tom _loathes_.

Her voice is light, dreamy as usual when she speaks, and yet it seems to hold an undertone of warning that settles over Tom’s shoulders like a storm. 

He very carefully doesn’t sigh, or pinch his nose as he’s wont to do when he’s agitated, just places his tophat on the first rung of the coat rack. “Luna. Let’s not dance around the main subject, yes?”

She turns, then, pale hair glinting in the firelight. Her eyes are just as big and silver as they were the last time he’d seen her. Too knowing, just like last time. It’s always grated on his nerves, how she seems simultaneously so unaware and yet so omniscient.

“You’re right,” she sing-songs, floating over to his desk. She traces a finger over the jade chess piece that sits very carefully in the corner. Kept carefully at the edge of Tom’s vision when he’s seated. “He’s so different, now, isn’t he? More independent, too.” Her gaze turns wistful. “Did you see him in the graveyard? It reminded me of when he first brought me here…”

Tom sneers. “Ah, yes. How _lovely_ it must have been, to reminisce on the discovery of your dead mother’s grave.”

Luna doesn’t do anything more than hum throughtfully, rolling the jade chess piece in between her pale fingers. Tom clenches his jaw, a muscle in his cheek jumping. 

“You’re unusually rude today, Tom,” Luna says softly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Tom chuckles lowly. “No, Luna, I don’t want to talk about my _rudeness_ . You know why you’re here, and I want _answers_.”

Luna looks at him, then, her eyes tracing the subtle tension in his shoulders. “Then ask me a question.”

Tom lets out a low, steady exhale. His eyes watch her, wary, his gaze jumping back and forth from the chess piece to her face. He huffs a laugh, then, shaking his head. “Of course. My mistake.”

He treads closer, and, as if sensing the silent request, Luna holds out the jade figurine in one of her gloved hands, the mint color a gentle contrast to the soft cotton. Tom takes it, cradling it in his hands, a precious thing. He admires how the firelight shines on the smooth planes of the miniature face, the eyes of the small statue so very much like the tantalizing boy it's based off of. He rolls it between his fingers, pensive. “Has he said anything? _Recalled_ anything?”

Luna stands next to him, an unmoving statue. For the first time, Tom can detect a mild hint of sadness in her voice. “Not yet. He didn’t say a word about the graveyard, but I suppose that’s expected. It’s quite a shock to see one’s parents’ graves for the first time, yes?” She looks at him, pointedly, or as pointedly as one can when they seem constantly unaware of it all.

“And the diary?” he asks, voice harsh with impatience. “I couldn’t open that blasted pouch to ensure he’d completed the first task; it wouldn’t due for him to ruin everything before he’s even really started…”

She nods, taking a seat in the small seat in front of the desk, her fingers tracing lazy circles over the dark wood. “Yes. He’s kept the pocket watch, but you knew about that, didn’t you?”

Tom absolutely loathes her mysterious, seer-like awareness. His Disillusionment charm is _perfect_ . She should never have known he was at the cottage, nevermind the _table_. He sends a dangerous, sharp smile her way. “Yes. A shame I couldn’t partake in the festivities. It would’ve been a joy to see Draco and Granger squirm.”

“Hmm.” Luna turns her gaze absently to the mirror, as if looking to the other side. “It’s hard, isn’t it? To look and not touch?”

Tom inhales sharply, the only betrayal of his sudden surprise. He smooths his face into a mask, watching Luna’s reflection, though she won’t meet his eyes. “How did you know about that?” he intones lowly.

She shrugs delicately, folding her hands in her lap. “You and Harry have always been tactile. _Were_ always tactile,” she corrects, mildly, and though the change of tense grates on his nerves, Tom knows she means no harm. Luna has never been one for barbs; she much prefers honesty. _Silly thing, she is._ “He’d never accept such advances so quickly. The Dursleys… were not kind to him.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice cutting through the air. “Surely that foolish old man would’ve put him in the best place possible? He always adored Harry, even if he didn’t quite trust him.” Tom smirks at the thought. Tom and Harry had been inseparable, then. Even Dumbeldore couldn’t have come between them, not in the way he’d hoped to. Tom had every intention of regaining that closeness.

Luna shakes her head, her eyes fluttering closed. “The Dursleys were not kind. I don’t know much; I thought you would’ve asked Cedric while you had the chance.” She opens her eyes the barest amount to send him an admonishing look, before closing them once more. “Neville could tell you more. He was so pleased to see that the rose bushes had flourished while he’d been gone, and the lillies as well. After so long away, he’d been worried…”

“The Dursleys, Luna.” Tom says, placing a heavy hand on the desk, ducking his head down to meet her eyes, but she is a lost cause, now. Her eyes are glossy, faraway. “The daffodils are still lovely as ever…” she murmurs.

Tom watches her, internally sighing. When she sinks into moods like this, there is nothing he can do but wait until she comes back to reality.

He stands, brushing a hand over his coat and summoning his hat back to his hand as his wand falls seamlessly from its holster into the other, joining the chess piece still in his grasp. He readorns the hat, casting one last, careful look at the seer. “You’ll head immediately back to the cottage, won’t you, Luna?”

“Hmm.” She doesn’t hardly acknowledge him, still listless in the high backed chair, but he knows she’ll do as he says. He controls the chessboard, and has many pieces in his grasp. Including the jade carving of The Alice.

 _The Rabbit, really,_ he muses. _The roles have shifted._

Speaking of jade…

He sends the chess piece back to his desk, but not to the corner, this time. No, he sends it to the chessboard, hidden away in the corner of the room. He glances over, and a small, dark smirk curls the corners of his mouth at where it lands. Harry’s been making good progress.

The jade really does capture Harry’s eyes magnificently.

With that last thought, he flicks his wand, and Apparates from the study to get dressed. He has a meeting to attend.

*

Before long, Harry finds himself wandering about a large hall, filled with polished marble and the cleanest floors Harry has ever seen. Quite a feat, considering the many floors he’s scrubbed in his lifetime.

It had taken him more than a little while to search ‘his’ room from top to bottom, and he found that it was shockingly large, considering that it had looked rather spacious to begin with. There was the standard furniture one found in a bedroom, and the only interesting thing he’d actually found was a large liquor cabinet (and why was that even _in_ there?). But even then, it’s not like he can use it for anything. Still, the thought of smashing a bottle over the Hatter’s head wasn’t unpleasant.

He had also managed to find some clothes in a large boudoir, and he gratefully changed out of the fine nightgown he’d been in and into a comfortable set of tunic and trousers. The clothing is a little large, but the fine material makes up for it. 

Turning himself away from his thoughts, Harry focuses on how his bare feet pad across the large hall. He tentatively sticks his head through an ornate doorway, only to be met by a dining room. The walls are a beautiful, robin’s egg blue, the chairs and table a dark, shining mahogany. The ceiling is painted a lovely scene featuring fluffy clouds and a sweeping, periwinkle sky. Tearing his eyes away from the picturesque furniture, Harry spurs himself into action and quickly creeps across the room, towards the other doorway. He pauses, suddenly, when he hears someone cough from behind him.

Harry winces. _Please don’t be the Hatter, please don’t be the Hatter…_

He turns around, slowly, and tries not to grimace when he realizes he’s been caught sneaking around less than ten minutes without supervision. He knows he’s been given the freedom to explore, but it seems almost uncomfortably nosy to look around someone’s home while they aren’t there, especially without the mysterious ‘chaperone’ he’s supposed to have. Oh, well. If the Hatter’s been keeping an eye on him like Luna said, he should know Harry’s not one for rules.

Harry forces himself to bite the bullet and meets the other’s gaze. He nearly does a double take.

He’d been expecting some kind of bulky bodyguard, finally come to tail him. _Not… this._

Standing there, fidgeting, is red haired boy of tall stature, with a long, thin nose and large hands. He holds a striking resemblance to the Cheshire Cat, now that Harry thinks about it, though without that innate confidence. He looks embarrassed, his ears tinting pink.

“Um. Hello,” Harry says, clearing his throat. His voice feels disturbingly loud in the awkward silence.

“Hello,” the boy replies, his eyes flitting up to Harry before looking back down again. He can’t seem to meet Harry’s eyes. “I’m your company for the day.”

Harry huffs internally. If the Hatter thinks he’s going to let his guard down just because his chaperone isn’t big and hulking, he’s wrong. “Of course. Well, I’ll be perfectly frank, then. Do you happen to know how to get out of here?”

The boy grins, sheepish, though he seems to be gaining confidence, as if the comment confirms something for him. “I’m sorry, but the Hatter has instructed me not to tell you that.”

Harry snorts. _Even when I can leave, I can’t._ “Of course he did, the prick.”

The other boy cracks a smile at that, a knowing glint in his eyes as he says, “Still, even if I can’t tell you that, I’d be perfectly happy to show you to the kitchen. We make a mean treacle tart.”

And Harry can already feel himself salivating over the prospect. He’d rarely had the chance at dessert at the Dursleys, and to have it offered so freely… It’s as if the boy knows just the way to win him over. Harry sobers at the prospect, attempting to adopt an air of business-like composure.

“Sounds good. Is he here now?” Harry asks, trying at indifference, as if the thought of that delicious sweetness is not enough to turn him into a gooey mess.

“I’m afraid the Hatter is out on official business, but if you’d like, I’d be more than happy to deliver a message for you.”

“No, no, that’s fine,” Harry says, waving a hand. A sudden realization hits him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask your name! Or title, sorry, or whatever you want to call it. I’m not used to the whole name thing, yet.”

The servant laughs, and though some of the tension has eased from him, the question seems to strain the sound. As the sound dies in his throat, he sends Harry a thoughtful look, as if considering him from all angles. “It’s alright. I’m called the March Hare. But...” and he seems to be weighing something in his head, before he says, “Ron.”

Harry blinks at the non sequitur. “What?”

“You’ve met Ginny. She told me you two met.”

Harry nods, slowly. “Yes, but I don’t see…”

“I’m her brother,” Ron sighs, as if exasperated at the very thought of her, though a hint of fondness lurks about the edges. He looks at Harry, intensely, considering. “And if she’s willing to dive in head first… Well, I am, too.”

“...Thanks?” Harry says, bewildered. He’s not sure what to say to a declaration like that, but ends up blurting out, “About that breakfast…”

...Ron’s eyes still rove over him, but he eventually shakes his head, as if coming back to himself. “Right. That. Come this way; I could kill for some sausage, myself.”

Harry nods. “Good. I’m famished,” and he follows the servant through the door, deeper into the house.

*

The food is _delicious_.

When Harry had walked in, he’d been presented with an astoundingly decadent spread of food, certainly fit for a king. 

There were eggs, bacon, sausages, bangers and mash, pies–Harry’s never seen so much food, and certainly not been permitted to eat it. He hadn’t even realized pumpkin juice was a thing, let alone something he could find himself liking. 

And the cherry on top of it all… the _treacle tart._

Each bite is pure heaven in his mouth, like sunlight and summer and sweetness coating his tongue. He nearly moans with the pure _bliss_ of it.

Ron stands in the corner, casting sidelong glances at the food. Harry’s stomach twists. He knows that feeling. 

“Sit down,” he says, gesturing for him to come forward. Ron’s gaze cuts to him from where it had been eyeing up the bacon. 

“I’m not really supposed to eat with guests.”

Harry huffs, “Did that Hatter say that?"

Ron shrugs. “He likes to eat alone; I tend to eat in the kitchen.”

“The Hatter can suck my dick,” Harry mutters, and he smiles when Ron snorts. Louder, he says, “C’mon. There’s no _way_ I can eat this on my own, and even if I could, it’s just rude. Besides, I can see you eyeing up the bacon from here.”

Ron looks away, guilty, even as a smile steals its way onto his face. “Fine. But you’ve gotta help me finish off the eggs; I used to eat them every day when I was little and now I can’t even _look_ at them without feeling sick.” He wrinkles his nose, as if recalling that very thing happening.

Harry grins. “That’s fine with me. I usually don’t get more than an apple for breakfast. This… is a dream come true, really.” 

The other boy sends him a long look. “Lack of money? My parents used to have that problem, but we raised chickens to make up for it.”

Harry waves an absent hand as he scoops another forkful of treacle tart into his mouth. He sighs, content, as he murmurs, “No. My relatives just didn’t like to waste food on me if they could help it.”

Ron’s eyes bore into his head, but he doesn’t say anything, which Harry is thankful for. He doesn’t want to think about the Dursleys, when something good has finally happened.

Silence descends on the table, but it’s not as awkward as Harry feared it would be. Still, he blurts, “Harry. My name is Harry.”

Ron looks at him over a plate piled high with pancakes. “Yes, I know.”

“Just so we’re even,” he says, unable to meet the other boy’s eyes. When he chances a glance upward, Ron’s smile is bright, and it seems almost… _relieved_. As if Harry has proved something to him.

Ron beams, and the tension disappears entirely as he thrusts his hand out. Harry takes it, hesitantly, and Ron shakes it, his grim firm as he says, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“So has everyone, it seems,” Harry replies, long-sufferingly, and Ron chuckles, a full, belly laugh, his blue eyes bright with something like fondness.

*

Tom can tell they’re restless. It isn’t often that he calls a meeting with all of his followers, but he knows that now, with his goals in sight, it is time to begin final preparations. 

He stands from his throne at the center of the dias, a sudden hush falling over the crowd. The black stone makes his every step echo, and his dark robes flutter around his feet with every heavy step he takes. He feels powerful, like this. There is no sweeter rush.

( _Except, perhaps, for the boy, that slip of a boy, who is here, finally, who is safe, who is_ home – )

“My followers,” he begins. He’s speaking hardly louder than a whisper, but the crowd is so silent and the room so echoing it is as if he has yelled a war cry. _It would be one, soon._

Tom’s hands fall open at his sides, spread wide, and he watches with concealed delight as they lean in, entranced. “I have gathered you here for one purpose, and one purpose alone: the return of the darkness to this land.”

They cheer, the dome of the chamber increasing their clamor tenfold. “King!” they cry. Tom feels the power like a crown on his brow. 

He revels in their cries before holding up a hand. They fall silent immediately. _Such obedience_ , he muses. “Hush, my friends. You are excited, but we must be wary; that which has returned to us may prove to be our downfall.”

“The boy, my Lord?” one of his braver followers asks. It is Barty; despite the masks, Tom can easily tell who hides under it by their posture and behavior. Years at the orphanage taught him well how to recognize others' body language. It is invaluable when determining a threat.

“Yes,” he says, evenly. He keeps his face carefully schooled; he wears no mask, for he has no need of such protection. His followers either fear or love him too much to betray him. 

( _Harry is the exception, he is always the exception, and he hates it, he loathes it, he_ loves _it – )_

“Harry Potter has been a friend to us in the past. But now, I fear, with no recollection of his past kindnesses, he may be too easily swayed by that fool of a King.” Tom lets a sneer cross his face. Dumbledore is an old, sentimental idiot whose only wish in life is to hinder Tom’s plans. 

“Fortunately, I have managed to manipulate events in our favor. He will be in our clutches soon enough, and, with careful cultivation, may prove to be what we need to finish what Dumbledore started.”

The crowd cheers once more, but Tom does not return their optimism. Without his memories, Harry was a risk, and with them, even more so. The path ahead was a tightrope; one misstep and everything he’s worked for would be swept out from under him.

“Why can’t the boy remember us, my Lord? Surely a stunner wouldn’t have hurt him so badly that he couldn’t remember even you?”

Tom stills, but otherwise shows no visible reaction. He fixes his gaze on the outspoken member of his domain and watches them with intimidating intensity. Rosier shrinks back, attempting to take a step backwards into the crowd. Tom resists the urge to sneer, because of _course_ it would be Mulciber’s friend. _Weaklings_.

Tom returns his gaze to the masses and finds they had all fallen silent once more, awaiting an answer. Tom stands, contemplative. “I suppose, my friends,” he begins slowly, measuring every word, “that sometimes magic must run its course. Harry Potter was an asset to us, and paid dearly for it. But do not fret, my brothers and sisters,” he murmurs. He could’ve heard a pin drop.

“He will join us once more, as he is destined to. And when he does… our true plans may commence.”

*

The first day in the manor passes quickly.

By sundown, Harry is exhausted. They’d been walking for what felt like hours, and even though his feet ached, he couldn’t help but feel light hearted. It helped distract him from the Hatter’s claims. Nevertheless, though, eventually he was forced to confront that stubborn thought. 

After thinking for a while, Ron’s chatter a welcome background noise, the prospect of becoming king of an entire kingdom still didn’t sound all that great, but surely he could just appoint someone else to be ruler once he took the throne? Then he could just go home, back to his friends. Back to his _joke_ of a family.

Easy peasy.

( _Not._ )

Ron certainly helped his happiness. He was funny and witty in a way that reminded Harry starkly of himself, and, though he wasn’t the most effortlessly charming bloke Harry had ever met ( _unlike Cedric_ ), he was unwaveringly kind and admirably brave ( _like Neville, like Lavender_ ).

Ron had followed Harry as he explored the manor, pointing out different memorials from the Hatter’s adventures and informing him on the many different rooms as they passed by. The house seemed nearly endless, the halls branching off into more halls filled with even more rooms. Harry mostly forgot to search for an exit, too, as Ron entertained him with many funny stories of his own. 

They end up by a fireplace in one of the drawing rooms, Harry dozing on the soft carpet as Ron recounts a story of his family. Little does Harry know, Ron left hours ago after draping a blanket over Harry’s sleeping form. 

*

_“There he is! Get him!”_

_Harry could feel his pulse in his ears as he raced down back alleys, his feet skidding on dirty cobblestones and stumbling over stray rubbish. It was Harry Hunting, again, and Dudley was particularly vicious today; Harry’d made the mistake of telling Dudley, realistically, his chances with Lavender. He hadn’t liked that._

_Harry ducked around a ragged old woman and launched himself over a tipped over barrel, hoping desperately that he could make it to the school before they could reach him, and there, just over the rooftops –_

_A hand caught him by the back of the collar, and in the next second, he was sprawled on the ground, blinking stars from his eyes, his chin bleeding and his hands scraped raw. He winced, and quickly flipped on his back, because he was_ not _going to be beat up by a group of idiots that could barely_ spell _–_

_“Harry?”_

_Harry tilted his head back, and nearly cried in relief when he saw them at the other end of the street, silhouetted in the sunlight like a group of angels. “Guys,” he breathed, a smile flitting onto his face._

_Harry’s gaze flicked back to Dudley and his gang, and he watched with thinly veiled satisfaction as all of the blood drained from Dudley’s face, because there, in the center, stood sweet, blessed Lavender, her voice soft and unsure as she called out to him. “Are you okay?”_

_He nodded, though he doubted they could see it from his position on the ground. “Yeah. I am, now.”_

_Dudley looked at Harry, then, eyes wide and panicked, before looking back at Lavender helplessly. After a moment, his gaze found Harry’s once more. Harry’s words from earlier were probably ringing in the larger boy’s ears._

_Dudley seemed to unfreeze, then, swiftly turning to face his group of idiot cronies. “C’mon,” he hissed, marching back towards the way they came._

_“But – “ one of them piped up, Harry wasn’t sure which one, but Dudley just shook his head. “No. We’re done here.” And just like that, they were gone, disappearing around the corner, leaving Harry heaving and breathless on the ground._

_“Are you alright?” Neville asked, rushing forward as he lifted him up by the arm. Harry nodded hesitantly._

_“Let’s get you to a doctor,” Cedric said, and just like that, everything shifts –_

_– like melted wax, the moment morphs into something else, something older, something_ sadder _–_

_“We’re going to the doctor,” a boy says, and Harry knows his name, he_ does _, and it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite form the words –_

_“No, no – I’m fine, really. It’s just a bruise.” Harry tries to shrug off the other boy’s hand, but his grip is like iron._

_“No, you’re not,” he says sternly, and Harry looks up into his face, but it’s all blurry, like the abstract strokes of a watercolor painting. “You’re going to have a black eye, and probably a busted lip. I don’t have time to argue with you about this.”_

_“No, just – just take me to the orphanage. Mrs. Cole has stuff there.”_

_The other boy rolls his eyes, but acquiesces anyway. They walk in silence, their hands barely brushing. The other boy breaks it. He’s always breaking things. “You shouldn’t have done that – I don’t need you to defend my honor, Harry. And anyway, I can deal with them. Alone,” he says, his words pointed._

_Harry shrugs, looking up at the sky, his hands going into his pockets. “You would’ve overreacted. Besides, I can take them.”_

_“Your black eye begs to differ,” but that’s all the other boy says on the matter._

_And then the world dissolves into abstract images, shades of worn white, of slate grey; dazzling gold dances behind his eyelids and bloody red rushes behind his eyes –_

_– a dark tunnel, the feeling of floating, of flying, of_ freedom –

– _strong arms wrapped around him, of warmth and comfort, of heat sparking in his stomach, in his chest –_

 _– a red rose, a black and white chessboard, a letter, a liar_ , _liar_ , liar –

*

When Harry wakes, an hour or two later, it’s sudden, like a current of electricity running through his entire body. Hazy images fade, like dirt washes away in the bath, and he blinks the sleep from his eyes as he gropes blindly for his glasses, quickly realizing they never left his face in the first place. He pushes himself onto his elbows, surveying the room from his vantage point on the floor. A moment of confusion, because this _certainly_ isn’t the Dursley’s, and then it all comes rushing back.

 _The Caterpillar, the Graveyard, the Tea Party, the_ Hatter _…_

“Ugh,” Harry groans, burying his face in his hands. “ _What_ have I gotten myself into?” he whispers to himself, admonishing. _To think, if I’d just stayed at the bloody Mason’s…_

Gathering the frayed ends of his composure, Harry pushes himself to his feet, the only light a warm, orange glow emanating from a lone lamp in the corner. The fire has long since died, so he knows it can’t be any earlier than ten or eleven at night, and he feels a rush of excitement pulse in veins.

_No escort._

He checks the whole drawing room, and is happy to note that there’s no errant redhead walking about. Dying of curiosity and seeing his chance, Harry digs around in the mokeskin pouch, withdrawing the invisibility cloak gently, like a man holding glass. Time for some _actual_ exploration.

As quietly as possible, he slips out of the drawing room, the invisibility cloak now firmly encasing his body. Looking both ways (and reminding himself sharply of crossing the crowded streets of London), grins in triumph when no one appears. 

He passes many of the artifacts Ron had pointed out for him, and uses them as landmarks of sorts to prevent himself from getting lost. It’s like a map, almost.

He pokes his head through a few doorways, but finds nothing of interest, and soon begins testing doorknobs. _After all_ , he reasons, _if there’s anything of importance, surely it won’t be open for all the world to see?_

With this new plan in mind, he carefully brushes his fingers against the doorknobs as he passes. Many of them are perfectly normal and lead into perfectly ordinary rooms, but some are different; they hum under his fingertips, as if familiar with him. The first time he’d encountered a door like that he’d nearly jumped a foot in the air, and, despite knowing he was perfectly invisible, had stepped behind a curtain in case anyone suddenly appeared.

No one had. And, in any case, the door was unlocked. Hesitantly and with no small amount of trepidation, Harry had carefully, carefully opened the door, holding his breath as it slowly slid inward. 

It was a bathroom. The bathtub was so big it was frankly _ridiculous_ , more swimming pool than actual bath, and the floors were gleaming, polished marble; the ceiling, oddly enough, was made of mirrors.

Harry huffs a laugh as he recalls the utter _relief_ he felt. _All that fuss over a bloody_ bathroom.

As he keeps exploring, Harry passes the staircase that leads to the ground floor. He and Ron had explored nearly the entire back half of the mansion as well as a majority of the second floor, but there were areas that Ron had studiously ignored, not even deigning to look in their direction. Namely, the front of the ground floor, and the far left side of the second.

The rooms he’d first slept in were on the ground floor, but Harry had very little intention of returning there tonight. He knows that the parts of the ground floor Ron had avoided were probably exits, so he’d have to check those out tomorrow (he wasn’t stupid enough to try and go outside at _night_ ), but the left wing…

Well, he’s always been too curious for his own good, hasn’t he?

And it's not like he's actually going to snoop around the Hatter's _room_ , just... poke around the edges. Surely it can't be _too_ bad?

Resolved, Harry makes his way forward. The ground floor is a labyrinth, but the second floor seems to be much more open, with vast, sweeping halls and ceilings that seem to nearly graze the clouds with their towering height. The walls seem to stretch endlessly onward, as well, and as a consequence, it seems to have infinitely more space for doors. 

The door to the drawing room Harry’d slept in not long before was as deep into the right wing as one could go, with a beautiful view of the yard and gardens, and it had taken precious minutes for Harry to finally find his way to the landing because of it.

But find he had, and just there, bathed in ominous shadow: the left wing.

Harry feels his whole body go jittery with both nerves and anticipation. There’ll be answers there, he’s sure of it. 

His feet are muffled by the length of carpet stretched out across the wooden floors, and Harry is eternally thankful, because he’s sure without it, someone would hear him coming from a mile away. 

Harry’s more hesitant to brush his fingertips against the doors, this time. Being somewhere like this, somewhere he’s sure he’s probably supposed to avoid (definitely supposed to avoid, if the Hatter’s quarters are here, as Harry suspects)... it makes him practically breathless with the _danger_ of it. Still, how else is he going to get anything done if he doesn’t know where anything _is_?

(It also may be, in part, due to his latent interest in the Hatter and learning more about him–especially when he knows so much about _Harry_ –but that’s besides the point.)

With more delicacy than he’s used to, Harry barely brushes his fingers across the first door he sees, testing its give. It’s locked, but that doesn’t surprise him.

Seeing as there’s nothing he can do, he passes, noticing that portraits adorning the walls as he goes, like spacers between each doorway. The first one is of a regal looking man, bathed in green with a snake wrapped around him. He looks almost… asleep, which is odd, but Harry doesn’t dwell on it. He instead continues on to the next painting, and finds it to be that of a woman, who holds none of her predecessor’s class. 

Her hair is limp, tangled, her skin sickly pale, and her eyes pointing in two opposite directions, but even so, Harry has the oddest notion that she looks kind of familiar… The set of her lips, the high cheekbones, something about it just strikes a chord with him.

Harry looks up at her, and has the strangest sensation that she can _see_ him. It’s ridiculous, but so is everything else around here, so he supposes…

He keeps going, and stops abruptly at the third painting, because in it–in it is a man who looks like a carbon copy of the Hatter. He’s older, his hair greyer, his eyes a light blue, but there’s no mistaking the resemblance. 

Harry’s eyebrows lift. _If this is the Hatter’s home, then he must be…_

He steps forward, tracing the air in front of the engraving at the bottom of the frame, and sure enough: _Tom Riddle, Sr._

_This must be his father. And if he’s the senior..._

Harry shakes his head. _Answers, indeed._

Not knowing what to do with the new information, Harry continues onward. There’s not really any point in confronting the Hatter about it–names must be given, after all. 

There don’t seem to be any more portraits, which strikes Harry as kind of odd, but he doesn’t worry about it; he just tiptoes forward, one step at a time, his fingers grazing over the metal of every door handle, gentle as a lover’s caress.

On the sixth door to the right, the doorknob hums, just like the others in the right wing, on the opposite side of the manor. As if compelled, Harry actually grips the handle, and watches with shock as the doorknob seems to practically _purr_ beneath his grip and, with a faint pulse, softly clicks open. Harry stares, openmouthed and bewildered, as the door slowly swings inward.

_That’s new._

Shaking himself from his surprise, Harry tentatively sticks his head over the threshold. 

Like magic (and perhaps because of it, and isn’t _that_ a weird thought?), the room seems to wake up, candles fluttering to life in every corner, filling the room with a warm, comforting glow. 

Harry stiffens, but soon realizes that he has no reason to; the bedroom, he now knows, is entirely unoccupied, and absolutely _bathed_ in red. The walls are a deep maroon, the bed covered in crimson blankets, the furniture a dark, warm brown, and there are gold accents littered here and there. It looks like it hasn’t been occupied in a year, at least, so it's safe to say he hasn't stumbled _too_ far into the Hatter's territory.

Harry loves it on sight.

He steps inside, closing the door with a soft _click_. The room has a distinctly cozy feel, aided by the soft, cream-colored curtains and large windows. There’s a few plush armchairs scattered about, and a soft carpet thrown across the floor, but no matter how much Harry wishes to just sink into its warmth, he knows he doesn’t have the time.

He wants to know _more_ . _What is the Hatter_ hiding _?_

Like a man on a mission, Harry heads over to the desk in the corner, carefully prying open the drawers and rifling through. There’s nothing of particular interest, just a few sheaves of parchment and a couple of quills ( _That’s a little old-fashioned,_ Harry thinks absently), so he continues lower. Still nothing.

There’s nothing particularly interesting _on_ the desk, either. Just a few books, none of them catching his eye. Deciding it’s useless, Harry does a quick search of the room, and again turns up empty-handed. His eyes stray to the innocent looking double doors tucked away against the side wall. 

He’s made it this far… What’s a little more?

He creeps over, and finds himself no less surprised than he’d been the first time when the door swings open under his hand. Unlike last time, however, no lights flicker to life upon his entrance. Harry curses. _Now what? He’s already half blind with glasses on, not to mention with total_ darkness _!_

He stands there a moment, before nearly smacking himself when he realizes that he can just take a candle from the bedroom behind him. He rushes back inside, takes one from the desk, and, with his hand peeking out from the cloak, tiptoes through the adjacent door. _It’s a hallway_ , he realizes. _But why would a hallway be here, when there’s one just outside?_

Rather than question it further, Harry passes through like a ghost, the only indication he’s there at all the low flickering of the candle. There’s another set of double doors, and there’s something ringing in Harry’s head… _You’re not supposed to be here…_

He whips around, panicked, his chest heaving with startled, terrified breaths, but there’s nothing there, just the light of the deserted bedroom. Harry backs away, his eyes flitting from side to side. He can’t quite see, can’t quite tell, and it makes him all the more nervous… A chill dances up his spine…

He eventually backs himself into the door and in one, smooth motion, wrenches it open, sending himself spinning into his new surroundings. He hadn’t even registered the doorknob once again allowing him access.

Harry shuts the door quickly, though still somehow finds the presence of mind to keep it quiet. He collapses against it, ripping the cloak off to allow himself a moment to breathe freely. His chest is heaving, his head spinning. _What the FUCK was that?_

It’s only once he gets his breathing under control that he really takes care to look around. The room is actually quite similar to the one across the hall, if a bit more refined. The wood is dark, polished, and the sheets are black, green playing across the surface where the candle hits it. There’s no carpet, just hard, marble floors, and it’s a great deal larger than the room Harry just left. There’s a wardrobe in the corner, a desk against the wall, and a balcony outside of the glass double doors. 

Pushing himself up from the door, Harry nearly jumps a foot in the air when he sees something move in the corner of his eye, but quickly realizes it is simply his reflection. He looks absolutely _harried_. 

His eyes are wide and nervous behind his glasses, his hair more of a bird’s nest than usual, and his clothes look a little odd, what with their mismatching sizes, but what really catches his attention are the little details. His skin seems almost luminescent, and his eyes…

His eyes are practically _glowing_ , the normal, deep green transformed to something brighter, almost acidic. They seem almost backlit.

Harry has to forcefully tear his gaze away, something twisting in his gut. _Surely it’s just his imagination?_

Brushing the thought aside, he’s just about to start snooping when he sees it. Right there, perched innocently on a side table, is a top hat. It is then that he knows _exactly_ who this room belongs to.

_Shit! Shit, shit, shit!_

He’s midway through flinging himself back through the door, because he _can’t be here, it was the first fucking rule, he only meant to look around the_ edges _of the left wing, and he’s so fucked, oh fuck_ , _fucking_ fuck, when –

He freezes, because surely that isn’t what he thinks it is. 

Oh wait, no, it is. 

It’s a _giant_ _fucking snake_ laying on the bed, and it’s staring directly at Harry, as if it would very much like to eat him. It’s yellow eyes survey him, almost like it’s trying to figure out exactly where to start.

He swallows, his throat dry. _Oh, fuck._

 _It can’t get any worse than_ this _._

He’s wrong.

Because at that very moment, the doorknob leading outside twists, and there’s only one possible person that could be coming through that door. 

Without a second thought Harry is flying through the door behind him, his heart throwing itself against his ribs, and he shuts it as fast as he can, praying the Hatter didn’t see anything. He hears a thud, and he hysterically thinks that was probably the _Giant Fucking Snake_ that had just _lunged at him_ –

He doesn’t dwell on it, just flies through the hall, slamming the door to the red bedroom shut as he throws the cloak over himself. Panicked, he knows that the lit candles are a dead giveaway, and he frantically begins blowing them out, ears pricked for any noise from the other side. 

Done with his frantic attempts to cover up his tracks, Harry slowly backs up to the door to the rest of the left wing, his eyes never leaving the side door, and he curses himself, because _why_ would he slam the door if he didn’t want to get caught, _why, why, WHY –_

The room is completely silent, the only sound Harry’s frantic breaths as he struggles in vain to slow his heartbeat, standing immobile in front of the main door as he listens intently.

There’s still the faint scent of smoke from the candles, moonlight still streaming through the window, but it’s quiet. Harry can’t even hear the creak of the floor from the other room.

After what might’ve been a minute or an hour, Harry doesn’t know, he breathes a silent sigh of relief. There doesn’t seem to be anything –

_Click._

Harry stiffens, going still as stone. That _definitely_ hadn’t come from the door to the other bedroom.

Harry turns in slowly dawning horror as the door to his escape swings open, an ominous shadow emerging from it. Harry, frozen, can only watch in mute horror as the Hatter stares him right in the face, and for a moment, he thinks, _this is it, this how I die –_

And then, a second thought, right on the tail end of the first – _I’m invisible._

And he can’t help it – he smiles, just a twitching at the corner of his mouth, but it’s there.

Oh, he’s still terrified to the point of nearly _pissing_ himself, yes, but he has an advantage. He’ll take what he can get.

The Hatter takes a step into the room; Harry takes a silent step back, thankful for the carpeting. The Hatter pauses, then, cocking his head. The motion unnerves Harry, doubly so because the Hatter hasn’t looked away from his invisible form even _once_ , even though that should be _impossible_. 

Slowly, as if approaching a cornered animal (and maybe he is), The Hatter takes another step forward, and just like last time, Harry takes another step back, though this time, he veers more to the left. The Hatter steps forward again; Harry steps to the left. They repeat this little dance, the seconds dragging by tortuously slow, and by the time the Hatter’s in the middle of the room, where Harry first stood, Harry is in the doorway. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

He steps back, about to make his escape, and –

_Creak._

Harry and the Hatter both freeze, the floorboard under Harry’s foot falling silent. As if in slow motion, the Hatter turns, one glimmering red eye showing over his shoulder. 

Harry shakes.

The Hatter looks _livid._

Harry’s breath stutters. And, in one quick motion, he bolts from the room, flying past the portraits and taking the stairs down to his room two at a time.

*

By the time he makes it to the guest room, his chest is heaving and his whole body’s covered in a cold sweat. He quickly slides into bed, hoping beyond hope that if the Hatter decides to visit him, he’ll assume he’d been asleep.

It’s no use.

The Hatter hadn’t followed, and Harry’s too keyed up to even think about sleep.

It’s only once the clock chimes three that he finally manages to drift off into an uneasy slumber, feeling as if a shadow stands over him, ready to pounce.

*

Long fingers drum against the balcony railing. The old man hums a haunting tune, one a young girl used to adore, but who is long since dead.

It’s light and cheerful, just like everything she once was.

He smiles, fond. _Oh,_ how he misses her.

“Your Majesty.” Draco Malfoy drops into a bow, his back stiff, before standing. His face is blank, but he’s never been as good as his parents at hiding his emotions. “I’m sorry for the late intrusion, but I have news.”

“What’s happened?” he asks, peering over his half-moon spectacles. The old man, dressed in fine, periwinkle robes pushes away from the balcony, walking back through to the large office. He gestures to a chair on the other side of a grand oak desk. “Please, sit.”

Draco does, if hesitantly. The small, silver circlet atop his head glints in the soft mixture of both the candlelight and the moon. “He’s back. Potter’s back.”

The old man hums. “I knew it’d be soon; Tom is much too expectant. Has he joined him, yet?”

Draco nods slowly, testing his words. “Uh – yes, I believe so. Lovegood brought him to the tea party, just as you thought she would. And he visited the graveyard…”

“Ah.” The old man reclines in his seat, stroking a hand down his beard. “Has Tom revealed the cloak to him, yet?”

“I have reason to believe so, though we still don’t know where Potter found it. The Hatter hid it exceptionally well.”

The man nods along, unworried. He had wished to be the one to give Harry the cloak, but Tom had been keeping it close, these past few years. He sighs, removing the crown from his head. “We’ll see to him soon. Has he remembered anything? I had hoped that perhaps being here once more would trigger something, but if he’s still planning to see Tom, I expect not…”

“He hasn’t,” Draco confirms. He looks troubled. “And also…”

“Hm?” The old man leans forward, intrigued. “If there’s anything else, we need to know before we make any motions in moving forward.”

Draco nods, hesitantly. His mouth twitches, as if resisting the urge to take back the words. He takes a deep breath, braving through his guilt. “The Dark Kingdom is rising. I could feel the magic lingering in the foundations; he’s gathering his followers as we speak.”

The old man falls silent. He’d expected this, of course, but for it to come so soon… He hadn’t thought the regenerative magic would kick in until another year, at least, but perhaps Harry’s return was a sign of the balance equalling out…

He sighs, shaking his head, before looking at the young prince before him. His successor, should things go wrong. His successor, because things _had_. “Thank you. We shall gather the Order and discuss in the morning. And tell Severus I hope to see him soon.”

Draco nods, standing. He bows once more. “Goodnight, your Majesty.”

“Goodnight, Draco.”

Albus Dumbledore hums once more, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He eyes the white-silver crown on his desk, sighing. 

Three heirs, soon to be kings. 

Three threats, soon to be determined.

The White King has his work cut out for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy end of pride everyone!
> 
> If it isn't clear, Tom is currently gathering forces for the Dark kingdom for his own nefarious plans ;) Also sorry if the writing's off, I'm exhausted and didn't read through it–I'll probably come through tomorrow and clean things up a bit, but have this for now!
> 
> This chapter marks the end of the majority of my prewritten material! And by prewritten, I mean snatches here and there of the main events of each chapter. So, what does this mean? Well, updates may be more slow going–sorry about that! But, I'm trying to stay motivated and churn out chapter 6 soon, so we'll see what happens!
> 
> Anyway, hope everybody's staying safe and taking care <3

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters.
> 
> Warning: This work is entirely unbeta’d, so all mistakes are entirely my own!
> 
> Kudos and comments are very much appreciated! <3
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr if you want to talk! I’m open to being screamed at through my inbox lmao. Here’s the link: https://penmanner.tumblr.com/


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